Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I’m still not sure why I’d done it, or what I’d been seeking. It scares me to think about that moment.
But strangely, what I’d found was comfort. A different, wrong kind of comfort. No, maybe that’s not the right word, but the pain of the cutting somehow managed to contain the rest of the pain. Like I could focus it. Concentrate it. Control it. It was how I could survive it.
I’d only done it sporadically because it still did hurt, and I used to be a wimp about pain. I’m better at taking it now.
When I turned fifteen, a momentous year for me apparently, I’d trusted Ana with this detail about my life. I’d told her about what I did, and why. About how it made me feel. It was after that that I started to do it regularly because it turned out I shouldn’t have trusted her. I should have known better.
I still don’t know if she did it to boost her social standing or to punish me for what my father had done to hers, but she used this secret—this deepest, darkest truth I’d told no one else—against me. Given my past, all those kids thought I was some freak anyway, and this just cemented it.
After Ana had betrayed me, I became more isolated than ever, and I cut and I cut and I cut.
But I’d stopped mostly by the time I was eighteen. There are moments where, like any addict, I think just one more hit. Just once more. The need can be overwhelming, but I know myself. I know there won’t be a one more time, and there’s always the fear that it won’t be comfort I seek, but something else. Something darker. More terrifying.
When I think like this, I wonder if my mom’s mental illness transferred to me while I was still in her womb, if I’m as sick as she was. But that thought is too terrible, and I shove it away, out of reach of my conscious mind.
Once the water starts to cool, I switch it off and reach for a towel. I dry off, being extra careful as I pat myself dry. I’m sore, but I’m not bleeding anymore. I slip on the too-big bathrobe and tie it.
When I return to the bedroom, I notice a tray of food has been brought up. My stomach growls when I smell steak, and I’m pleased to see a bottle of red wine. I can’t imagine Santos sent the wine, but I guess he sent the food.
I go to the tray and pop the cork out of the bottle. It’s been opened but recorked. I pour a generous glass for myself and drink a big swallow, then another. I take the lid off the plate of food and see the steak, lobster, potatoes, and steamed greens. I cover it again to take a look around first.
With the glass of wine in hand, I walk into his closet. It’s huge. Santos certainly likes his bespoke suits. I almost laugh. But then I find myself reaching for the sleeve of one of his jackets and bringing it to my face. I close my eyes and inhale his familiar scent. It’s all around me in here, and I just breathe it in.
I want to hate him. I do hate him, don’t I?
Confused, I shake my head and look around.
I’m not sure what that was between us, how things have shifted. If he’d taken what he’d wanted and I’d felt nothing but pain, would this be easier to process?
I need to be smart about this. This is different than I expected—not necessarily worse, though. He’s attracted to me, that’s clear, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m attracted to him. Sex with him felt good. Coming with him was different than it is when I make myself come. It’s a whole other world I didn’t know existed. From the way he looked at me, he felt it too. Or maybe it was his self-imposed celibacy—if I buy that.
That doesn’t matter though, not now. What happened tonight changes things. Sex can be my weapon. Sex can be where I gain the upper hand, even if it is only for little bits of time.
I can do this. I can remember this and remind myself that we are enemies. Enemies with benefits.
With a smile, I sip my wine and look through his closet. It is so precisely organized. I’m not surprised. He’s a control freak in every way. I look through all the drawers and find the usual things. I mess up some of the folded items just because and come up to one drawer with a locked metal box inside. It looks old and very different than anything else in here.
Lifting it out of the drawer, I take a close look at the lock. It can’t be hard to pick but I’m not in the mood, not right now.