Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 70263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
And, God help her, I didn’t want to be strong.
5
Galina
I was familiar with fear and the rush of adrenaline. It had been a companion in my life for as long as I could remember. So why was I shaking after my attack? Why was I having trouble breathing at the memory of his hands on my throat? Why was my vision going from clear to fuzzy, making it hard to focus?
I exhaled, shook my head to clear it, and found myself walking around my bedroom, unable to sit still, feeling as if I was missing something, as if there was an integral part of me that I’d left back there in that alley.
In Vegas.
I stopped in the center of my bedroom and looked down at my hands. They still shook slightly, and I scowled at them, curling my fingers tightly until the prick of my nails pressing into my palm had that rage inside me loosening.
Letting fear and the sensation of not having control take over my life wasn’t something I’d ever allow, not if I had the power to be strong.
I swallowed, the pain and roughness in my throat a reminder that the asshole’d had his thick fingers digging into my skin, his nails all but tearing at my flesh. I loosened my fingers from the tight cage, went into the bathroom, and turned on the light, the fluorescent bulb above me flickering before finally settling and staying on.
I could hear the electricity moving through the lightbulb, almost loud enough to drown out my warring thoughts.
I curled my fingers around the yellow-colored sink, the entire bathroom like something out of a ’70s home interior catalog. I leaned forward, the mirror above me cracked in the corner, spider veins snaking down the edges.
The woman who stared back at me was familiar, yet she was also a stranger. She was used to the horrors of life. But as I looked into my blue eyes, I could see the truth. I was empty. I’d been that way for a very long time.
For some reason I thought back to the dark-haired man in the diner. His gaze made something warm and unusual grow within me, his focus so strong that I felt it as if he were reaching through the distance and pulling me in close. It was crazy, unrealistic, and so very dangerous. I couldn’t entertain the idea of making any kind of connections like that. I couldn’t allow myself to be known like that.
My gaze went down to my throat, where four finger-sized bruises were starting to form on one side, and a thumbprint mark on the other. I looked at my hands, hating that they still shook, and lifted my fingers to touch the marks.
Although my throat was raw and tender, I didn’t feel much of anything else.
Am I dead inside?
Was this what it meant to only survive, not live?
I went through the motions of getting ready for bed before leaving the bathroom and heading back into my bedroom. Although I hadn’t eaten anything since early this afternoon, I had no appetite, my stomach feeling like it had a stone lodged in the center.
I stood in the doorway of the bedroom and stared at the mattress with no frame pushed up against the corner wall. This apartment was disgusting, far worse than the last hole-in-the-wall place I'd been in when I was in Vegas. But it was this type of place that would protect me from the people I ran from. It was a place to keep me hidden.
It was places like this, places that were in shit parts of cities, that didn’t require background checks or credit approvals. They took cash in the palm of their hands and asked no questions when I handed them my fake ID. As long as I paid on time every month, I was left alone.
Aside from the mattress, the room was barren, not even a dresser. But I didn’t need nor want furniture. I didn’t want to get settled, because this place wasn’t a home. I kept my clothes in my backpack, always carrying it with me in case I had to run again.
I walked over to the window and pulled the old, pale-yellow sheet aside. It had been the only other thing in the bedroom besides the mattress, and I used it as a makeshift curtain, although I was pretty sure people could still see through it at the right angle.
The scent of age and musk filled my nose, this uncomfortable tingle in my sinuses.
My apartment was only one story up, something I was very thankful for in case I had to run again, in case my only exit was this window. I stared out at the neighborhood. It was just as depressing and dirty, gloomy and dark as you’d expect in a city that was filled with addicts and crime.