Page 73 of I Will Break You
He messages back with:
I never pretended I wasn’t.
“What’s the point in writing anything if you’re going to destroy my work?” I shout, my voice cracking with frustration. My hands clench into fists, and my vision blurs with tears of anger and despair. Everything I’ve worked for is slipping away, destroyed by the very person I once trusted. “You’re determined to ruin my life.”
When he replies with a thumbs-up emoji, my nostrils flare. I toss the phone on the other side of the bed. What do I have left if I can’t write my erotic ghost story?
The rest of my young adult series?
Xero really liked Rapunzelita.
I shake off that thought. People don’t want to read fractured fairy tales about girls who don’t get nasty with the villain. At least not my audience. I sent book one of the Rapunzelita series to multiple agents and didn’t receive any replies. Myra was nice enough to read it for me, but she said it wasn’t the sort of thing her agency promoted.
My gaze lands on the vodka bottle, my desperate means of escape. I crack it open and take two long swallows, welcoming the burn. Within seconds, the world feels a little less painful, a little less real.
When life gives you setbacks, you don’t have to keep pushing forward. Sometimes, it’s okay to get wasted. There’s no rush. Your problems will still wait for you in the morning, ready to crush you all over again.
After I realized no one was interested in Rapunzelita, I spent months wallowing in rejection, completely dependent on Dr. Saint and Mom’s validation until I fixated on Xero’s mugshot. He wasn’t dark and brooding, like most anti-heroes, but eerily compelling with his chiseled features and ice-cold irises.
Driven by madness or a desperate need for someone to appreciate my talent, I drafted him a letter, painting myself as a mysterious and troubled heroine. His attention once filled the void of my loneliness, but now, it’s reduced me to seeking oblivion in budget booze.
“Less whining,” I say to my budget-friendly bottle. “More drinking.”
After taking another gulp of cheap liquor, I flop against the headboard. The buzzing of my phone fades into the background, muffled by an alcoholic fog. As my vision blurs, I slide down the bed and welcome unconsciousness.
Hours later, rhythmic knocking drags my mind out of sleep. It’s an unearthly sound, like bones rattling against wood.
A hangover pounds through my head and my gut churns withnausea. It’s about this time I regret trying to drown my sorrows in vodka.
I crack open an eye, expecting it to be light. All I see is the darkness of my bedroom until the unearthly sound rips through my eardrums.
Knock, knock, knock.
Panic grips my chest, sending a surge of cold adrenaline. Every instinct screams at me to reach for the knife under my pillow, but my arms are pinned to my sides.
This is his doing.
Movement in the shadows pulls my attention to the corner of my bedroom, and he steps out of the dark.
The seven-foot-tall specter drifts toward the foot of the bed, his eyes shining with a malevolent glow.
My breath shallows.
Is this the night he finally drags me to hell, or will he continue tormenting me to insanity?
That thought slices through my brain fog like a scythe. I thrash within my bonds, wanting to crawl out of my skin, but my arms feel tied to the sides of my body.
Will he pass the salt circle?
It’s supposed to repel evil spirits. I laid it perfectly.Twice.
When Xero pauses at its perimeter, terror loosens its grip around my heart, replaced by a flicker of faith.
The salt will hold.
Won’t it?
A cold wind sweeps into the room, extinguishing any remaining hope. His head bows, pulling those glowing eyes away from mine and toward the salt.