Page 41 of I Will Break You
When they called my father, I expected him to arrive with a syringe and put me down like a rabid dog. As he walked me out of the school in silence, I wanted to vomit. I didn’t think I would survive to see the end of the day.
Do you know what he said?
What do you think your parents are hiding? It may be worse than allowing you to sit in the back seat of their car without a belt. How often do they avoid the subject of your accident?
Xero.
P.S. Did you receive the toy?
TWENTY-FOUR
AMETHYST
The next morning, I wake up so horny I can’t even think straight. Sweat coats my skin and drenches the tangled sheets. My clit aches, feeling twice its usual size, and the pulse between my legs pounds in sync with my rapid heartbeat.
I’m in the throes of withdrawal. By now, Xero would have woken me with morning phone sex, ending with an explosive orgasm. But he’s no longer corporeal and my libido is fucked.
My fingers wander beneath the sheets, tracing a line down my belly in search of relief. When I reach my clit, it’s so sensitive that I gasp at the first touch.
Biting down on my bottom lip, I rub gentle circles over my swollen flesh. Sensation races across my nerves, and I flinch. The jerky movement rocks the four-poster with an almighty creak.
I freeze.
There’s no way I can stroke myself to orgasm within earshot of Mom. Or more importantly, Uncle Clive.
Sighing, I withdraw my hand. I slip my fingers beneath the pillow out of habit and trace the outline of another envelope. When I pull it out, there’s a note inside in Xero’s handwriting that says:
Your toes taste delicious when you sleep.
Xero.
P.S. So does your pussy.
My stomach plummets toward the wooden floorboards, and I choke on air.
Toes?
Memories from last night filter through my skull, each one tugging at the edges of my consciousness. With a shake of my head, I shove them away. Denial seems the best way to preserve my sanity. At least until I can tell the difference between hallucinations, reality, and erotic nightmares.
I arrive at Dr. Saint’s office at 7:25 AM, only to find it locked. The wide front window offers a view of the receptionist’s desk and waiting area, which are both empty. Maybe there’s no activity because I’m five minutes early? I refuse to believe my brain fabricated a fake appointment.
Leaning my back against the glass, I stare out into the street. At this time of the morning, it’s deserted, save for the occasional person opening their stores. On the other side of the road, a large man lumbers out of the Phoenix nightclub, locks the doors, and walks toward a black SUV. He glances in the direction of the Wonderland Fetish Store and then toward me. I dip my head, not wanting to make eye contact.
I’m trying to resist the urge to dismiss what happened last night as another hallucination, brought on by a) the trauma of finding an envelope filled with fingers and b) the appearance of Uncle Clive.
There’s an urban legend about a woman waking up in the middle of the night with a tongue licking her hand. Assuming it’s her dog, she pets it and falls asleep. The next morning, she wakes up to find her dog murdered along with a note in its blood that says,HUMANS CAN LICK TOO.
My brain must have conjured it up because the alternative can’t be true. Ghosts don’t enter locked rooms to hide under beds and suck women’s fingers. Ghosts also don’t offer women cunnilingus only to knock them unconscious and leave them withthe female equivalent of blue balls. That kind of shit is only the product of a malfunctioning mind.
The black SUV drives away, and someone behind me taps on the glass. I turn around, finding Dr. Saint standing on the other side with her hand encased in a bandage, wearing a tank top and leggings instead of her usual skirt and blouse.
She’s a tall woman in her late-thirties, who usually wears her shoulder-length hair loose. Today, it’s tied back in a severe bun as if she’s cut short her session at the gym.
Opening the door, she lets me in without a word and then walks in silence across the waiting area. I drag my feet, feeling bad for interrupting her regular schedule.
Her office is set up like a cozy living room, complete with wall lamps, a bookshelf, and a squishy brown velvet sofa. The furniture has been moved around a little, so her desk is closer to the door. I sit in an armchair, watching her rifle through a pile of papers.
“Amethyst Crowley,” she says, her voice sharp. “I haven’t seen you in years.”