Page 39 of Tormented
I grab hold of her wrist, boundaries be damned, and shove her leather cuff out of the way before she can fight me off. “Tell me what this is.”
Her glassy eyes glue to the small scars, shock and terror on her face. But not at what I’m seeing, at the fact I am seeing it.
“You know what that is,” she whispers with more venom than I expected. “Don’t ask silly questions unless you want a silly answer.”
“You still do this?” The evidence is there in the color of the lines, but I need to hear her say it.
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Abbey.”
She’s more like you than you gave her credit for . . . .
And it scares the ever-loving hell out of me.
“It helps,” she protests when I refuse to let go.
“How?”
“Because it numbs everything inside when I make it hurt on the outside.”
Just. Like. You . . . .
I shake my head, gently pulling her cuff back into place. She wrenches her wrist from my grasp and cradles her arm to her chest.
“Don’t tell anyone, please. Hooch knows, but he’s the only one. Even King doesn’t know I do it.”
You can’t do anything to this one,my devil whispers. You can’t ruin what’s already destroyed . . . .
“How do you do it?” she asks quietly. “How do you not let your differences get to you?”
“They do,” I admit.
She tips her head to the side, clearly confused. “But you seem so comfortable with yourself.”
“Seem,” I echo, emphasizing the key word in what she said. “I was happy with who I was, but now . . . why the fuck am I even tellin’ you this?”
“Because we all need to unload sometimes,” she murmurs toward the floor.
“Except you, right?”
“Right.”
I shake my head, coaxing her chin up. “Wrong.”
She swallows, eyes fixed to mine, and all I can see in her dark irises is hope: that I won’t hurt her, that she can trust me.
I look away, dropping my hand as I step back. “You can leave now, if you like.” I can’t promise her any of those things, so why lead her on?
“I was beaten,” she whispers, fidgeting with her cuff. “I was drugged to sleep, ordered around like a slave, and rented out to his sick fucking friends by the hour . . . all before I turned six years old.”
My fists ache from the pressure on my knuckles, my nostrils flaring as I try to keep my voice level and calm. “What’s his name?”
“Irrelevant.” She draws a deep breath and stands taller. “It’s in the past. I got away, that’s all that matters.”
“Bullshit it is.” She stiffens as I close the space between us, her body arching back when I come toe-to-toe. “That’s why it matters,” I say, pointing my index finger directly at her chest. “That reaction right there is why it still fucking matters what his name is.”
“What you going to do?” she asks with a hint of disbelief. “Punish him? He’s probably dead or in prison by now, and quite frankly, I don’t care. I don’t want him sharing one more second of my life ever again.”