Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Stalker Jenna studied all about Gage’s hockey career starting from when he played in a youth league. It’s all there on Wikipedia. First-round draft pick, entry into the professional league, and a storied career over eighteen years during which he led teams as captain, won multiple Cup championships, and was regarded as one of the most likable players in the league.
One of the downsides of Google is it also shows you things you don’t want to see. There were plenty of pictures of Gage out on the ice, at charity events, hanging out with teammates, but the one thing I could’ve done without… the women. Fancy red-carpet events where he was in formal wear with a beautiful woman on his arm. As far as I could tell, he has no preference on hair color because I saw brunettes, redheads, and blonds. They tended to be statuesque, but then again, he is extremely tall.
Obviously, all the women he’d been out on the town with were stunning. Runway eligible with perfect faces and even more perfect bodies.
I close my laptop, shutting out an image I’d been studying of Gage last year before he retired. He had apparently been dating a brunette at the time, the couple photographed at a formal event. He filled out his tuxedo well, and she wore a spaghetti-strap black evening gown and was beaming up at him as a photographer snapped the picture. Gage’s arm was around his date’s waist and he held her close, smiling right back at her with such happiness, it made my chest hurt.
“Why do you torture yourself?” I ask out loud.
With a sigh, I push up from the metal chair. I’m still eating off a card table, but I’m hoping the rest of my furniture will be delivered next week. I take the empty wineglass I’d been sipping from while I made myself miserable surfing Google and carry it into the kitchen.
I then head into my bedroom, removing the towel wrapped around my damp hair. I showered over an hour ago but haven’t managed to change out of my bathrobe yet. I hang the towel on a hook and move to the bathroom mirror where I complete my nightly face cream ritual. It’s become rote for me to smooth the cream on the good parts of my skin as well as the bad. The textured flesh starting at my jawline and creeping down my neck might improve over the years, but it will always be glaringly different from the healthy skin.
I brush my hair and leave it to dry naturally. Even though it’s getting late, I still have a few hours of work to do tonight, so it’ll be dry by the time I’m ready for bed.
In my bedroom, I untie my robe, remove it, and toss it onto the bed. As I reach for my pajama drawer, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror of my open closet door. It only reflects the left side of my body, and in the dim light, I look normal. I hastily avert my gaze as I don’t like looking at myself.
At least not the skin.
Coward.
Gritting my teeth, I straighten and face the mirror head-on. I move closer, my eyes focusing on the area from my jaw, down my neck, to the top of my shoulder. If only that was it, I’d almost believe I could be comfortable with myself again.
I let my eyes drop, taking in my rounded breasts, flat belly, and curvy hips. Many men would find me sexy.
At least the front part of me.
Even though my stomach roils with apprehension and fear, I force myself to turn around and before I lose my nerve, I twist my neck sharply to look at my backside in the reflection.
There’s nothing normal.
It’s a grotesque myriad of mottled and welted tissue over my entire back, buttocks, and thighs. Angry red skin glares with pale ridges splaying like a spiderweb network all over my backside. If I were to run my fingers over the scarring, I’d barely feel the sensation because most of my nerve endings there are dead. But my fingertips would be able to trace the bumps and ridges of melted flesh alongside the smooth patches of skin grafts. I can’t even bring myself to touch my scars, and it’s a potent reminder of why I’m alone.
Of why Paul left me.
Because I’m too monstrous for anyone to handle.
I force myself to continue staring in the mirror. Maybe if I look at the reality of my situation more often, I could come to accept it. I’ve tried so many ways to move past my traumas—therapy (I actually continue with therapy as needed) and medications to pull me out of situational depression. I’ve leaned heavily on my family, and had it not been for Emory and my parents, I don’t know that I would be here today. There was a time I was in such a dark place and things were so physically and emotionally painful, I’d go to sleep at night and pray I wouldn’t wake up in the morning.