Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 137871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 689(@200wpm)___ 551(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 689(@200wpm)___ 551(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Her fingers traced her collarbone, where a bruise marred the skin. Shadows of a puncture wound lingered just above her pulse. One blink, and she could feel him on her. One blink was all she could afford.
Forcing herself to look at her body and see what she’d become, she counted every rib. She was still in there. Ten fingers. Ten toes. One mouth. Two eyes.
She touched her lips and turned her cheek to see the bruise from where the bridle had cut into her jaw. Scratches and knicks ticked across her skin like little tallies—of what crime, she couldn’t be sure. There had been too many to count.
After dozens of visits and countless inquisitions, she’d lost all hope of ever seeing the light of day again. As her optimism deteriorated in that cell, her sanity frayed.
She shivered as the memory of his voice teased through her mind. Though he rarely spoke, when he did say something, it had the effect of snakes on her skin. She’d been helpless, forced to let his words crawl over her as he helped himself to her body.
On the rare evenings when he wouldn’t visit, her fragile sanity shattered. Those quiet nights were somehow worse. The waiting in fear burned her out, so much so that she was sometimes relieved to hear him unlocking her cell. At least then she knew it would soon be over and she could sleep.
Looking down at her dirty skin, she wondered how long it might take to actually feel clean again. After such an ordeal, could any woman truly live long enough to truly find out?
Some filth lasted longer than tattoos.
The faucet squeaked as water rushed into the tub. Steam billowed upward. She let the hot water wash over her dirty nails as she rinsed away the dust coating the tub.
Scabs formed where the ropes had cut into her wrists. Recalling the chill of blindly washing her tied hands in the basin they delivered each morning, she let the hot water rush over her arms, welcoming the slight burn.
Steam swirled like a plume of smoke, and she reminded herself that was normal. She couldn’t recall the last time she showered. The last time she felt safe or normal or clean.
Years. It had been fucking years of blind sponge baths and cold, dirty water in the dark. She doubted such filthiness would ever fully disappear.
Juniper adjusted the faucet and turned on the shower. Her legs were tired from running in the woods, and her feet needed serious care.
Moving under the spray of hot water, a gasp jerked against her ribs, sharp and painful, as too many emotions loosened.
Don’t you fucking cry. Don’t you dare shed a single tear.
All her tough talk did no good as another jagged gasp ripped through her. Her strength crumbled like a landslide, rolling into a harrowing sob.
Taking the hard bar of soap in hand, she gently labored over her tender muscles, lathering up her skin as she tried to wash the filth away. But the worst of it was inside her.
Closing her eyes, she whaled into her forearm as sharp notes of bergamot and citrus anchored her to this seemingly safe place, far, far away from the cell they’d put her in.
“I’m okay. I’m okay.” Sobs punched out of her. “It’s over. It’s done.”
Memories tickled like spiders crawling on her skin. She wished she could wash away the stench of the musty, underground dirt floors that still swamped her mind.
She missed her aunts. She missed her boring life, her shitty high school, and her aimless friends. She wanted to be a kid again. She wanted to go back to when she knew nothing about true evil.
More sobs built in her belly, constricted by the cage of her ribs as she gasped to get them out. She couldn’t breathe. Was this what hyperventilating felt like? Was she having a panic attack?
Afraid she might black out, she lowered herself to the ground and let the water rain over her. Sliding the hard bar of soap between her legs, she tried to wash her shame away.
The emaciated jut of her hips angered her, and she punched the tile, splitting her knuckle open. She punched again, letting the pain anchor her to the present.
She could still feel him breathing over her, his crushing weight sinking onto her.
Her lungs tightened and the soap fell from her hands, sliding to the drain.
She was a vessel of pain. Nothing beyond a threat. Sometimes a treat. But always a parasite, even when he used her for pleasure.
I won’t hurt you, he’d say, as if trust could live between them amongst such a vicious lie.
It always hurt. Every part of it. Her body. Her chest. Her heart. Her mind.
The cold press of his hands as they rode up her thighs.
It was never painless because it was never her choice, no matter how still she stayed for him. She fucking hated him with every single cell of her being. But her endless hatred had no target. He was a man without a face. A man who had no name. Her bottomless rage had no cure.