Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 125681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Chilling fear always clung to the air. That made it hard to breathe. Hard to sleep.
I had started a habit of hugging the comforter to me for some sense of security.
Fear created maddening thoughts in my brain. When the wind whistled outside my window, I imagined Cain slipping by and stalking within the darkness, ready to cut me open.
Every shadow resembled a cold predator slithering across the room and reaching out with a sharp knife. Even after having the courage to close my eyes, I swore inky black monsters hovered above my bed, waiting for me to fall asleep.
Terror constantly moved through my body in anxious, jagged waves, sending shivers down my spine.
Sometimes I thought I was being watched.
I spent hours checking the ceiling and corners of rooms for secret hidden cameras.
I jumped at every sound while so many erratic thoughts hit me: Is that the squeak of door hinges or the rattle of the back door’s handle? Is that the front door’s knob twisting? Is Cain coming for me? Was the money enough?
The second night, I sat in the closet with my gun, blankets, and pillows. Stray strands would fall on my neck and I would jump thinking it was a hand reaching for me. I almost shot myself twice. There were times I would nod off for a few minutes here and there, before waking up to a distant noise. Most of the time the noise was my imagination descending into maddening terror.
On the third night I returned to my bed. Still, terrified, I began to manage it a little better and think of other things. I pushed and pushed the fear away. I battled it. A bad thought would rush to me and I would kick it away with confidence. I would fight that motherfucker to the ground like it was a thieving asshole in the street.
By the fourth night, I conquered the fear enough to breathe.
But then, the darkness consumed me.
And it was hard and unyielding.
I drowned in its depths.
My soul searched and searched for light, trying to rise to the surface.
On the sixth night, I started thinking about my childhood. I began wondering about how much my step father must’ve done to me. I tried to guess on all of the things that I’d blocked out to keep my sanity together.
How much did he rape me? And how? Why did my body always ache when I woke up? Was I conscious during those moments or did my little mind shatter away?
With those ponderings, I discovered that there was a heavy weight to my emotions. A drowning boulder of pain.
In those moments, the walls closed in and pushed down on me. The ceiling lowered and oppressed me. Pressure built in my chest and suffocated me.
The more I thought about the past, the shallower my breathing became. The more I felt like something was squeezing and squeezing and squeezing my body. Tightening my soul. Corrupting my light and darkening my old scars to black.
The bedroom began to feel gloomier and more silent.
No matter how I shifted the blinds, moonlight never spilled in. No matter how many times I turned on the hall light and kept the door open, a glow never came. No matter how many times I turned on the lamp, the bulbs dimmed and the light was never bright.
There was always darkness. Darkness to the space. Darkness to my thoughts. Darkness to my heart. Darkness to my soul.
There was also an emptying as if my body’s core had been drilled and made into a hollow tube full of nothing.
On the seventh night, I almost yearned for Cain’s arrival and even Cain’s knives slicing through my flesh. The sting of his blades was a welcome departure from the darkness swallowing me up and the emptiness that I felt in my heart.
I began to crave the pain.
So. . .
sometimes. . .
I cut myself. . .
just to feel that sharp, burning sting again. . .
just for some form of. . .
release. . .
And I had this sudden impulse to take a small pair of sewing scissors and scratch my inner thighs. I didn’t know where the haunting urge came from. I just acted on instinct. Maybe I followed my body’s desires. Perhaps, I was trying to learn me more.
Surely, it was wrong to hurt myself.
Yet, an overwhelming relief flooded me as the scissor’s cold points burned into my flesh and I watched small drops of blood drip down my leg. I breathed in the iron of my blood.
I felt free for the first time since escaping Cain.
And I just. . .kept scratching. . .and cutting. . .until the darkness held the sounds of my skin tearing and the noise of my breaths quickening.
The next morning, my inner thighs were raw and scarred. I had to wear lace thigh highs when I danced. Thankfully, my boss and none of the male customer’s complained.