“Stop.” The word rips out of me. Tears swim in my eyes, break free, and trail down my cheeks. “Don’t,” I stumble, raise my hands to ward off the memories.
Carrson’s not looking at me anymore, he’sinsideme, pulling my walls down with every word. “You wore a black dress. I saw the picture. His hand was on your waist. You were smiling, but tell me, how did the night end?”
I fought Preston, but I’m too small. Too weak.
Carrson stands across from me like he’s waiting for something to snap. “What happened to that dress, Laurel? I don’t see it in the closet.”
I burned it, set it on fire in my backyard and watched the flames devour it. I hoped the fire would scorch away my shame. My pain. That all those emotions would float up in the air with the ashes, but they didn’t. I breathed it in, that toxic smoke, and it settled deep in my lungs, in my soul, and it’s been suffocating me every day since.
“Stop,” I tell Carrson, louder now, my voice cracking as my hands ball into fists.
“You’re not safe,” he says, his eyes on mine and I see it there, a mixture of pity and rage. He knows. He knows what happened to me. “You weren’t safe back then. You’re not safe now. Not safe anywhere. Not unless you become someone they can’t touch. Someone theyfear.”
My stomach tightens.
“How about your dad?” asks Carrson, devil that he is. “How did he find out?”
I was bleeding. Dad took me to the hospital. One look at me and the doctors knew. They told Dad. The look on his face. The devastation.
Carrson’s gaze sharpens. Not cruel. Not kind. Just cutting. “You want to survive?” he asks. “Then face it. Don’t pretend it didn’t happen. You’ve been doing that for months and look where it got you.”
I’m shaking now. Fists clenched. I don’t know if I’m going to scream or collapse.
“You think Preston was the last?” Carrson asks, quietly. “You think Sam’s the worst this world has waiting for you? You haven’t seen anythingyet.”
“I saidSTOP!Shut up!” I lunge at Carrson, my fists flying toward his face, but he dodges. I’m crying, like I have so many times since that night, but this time they aren’t tears of sorrow. They are tears of rage. Bitter. Acidic. The kind that burn as they fall.
“I didn’t ask for this.” A shuddering breath as I say, “I didn’t ask forthat.”
“You’re right,” Carrson says, backing up as I charge again. Calm. Controlled. Like this is exactly what he wanted. “You didn’t ask for it, and you didn’t deserveanyof it.”
I swing. Wild and clumsy.
He ducks, keeps just out of reach.
“It wasn’t your fault. The things that happened to you,” Carrson says, like he knows how I’ve blamed myself, torn myself apart. How I’ve questioned if the dress was too short, if I flirted too hard, if I somehow gave Preston the idea that was what I wanted.
I move faster, reckless. My hands lash out. I want to hit him.Hurthim. I want him to feel something, anything close to the pain I’m drowning in.
He keeps slipping just out of reach. Untouched.“It wasn’t your fault,”he repeats with emphasis. “You didn’t do anything wrong to deserve it.”
I move faster as he dances back, but this time, I get in a slap to the side of his arm. Pathetic, but still, it feels good. That I got my hands on him.
His eyes light up, not with pain, but something colder.Approval.
“Good,” he encourages. “That’s it. Feel the rage. Let it feed on itself. Let it grow.”
“I’m going to kill you,” I threaten, and for the first time I’m not sad, I’m not thinking about all I gave up. I’m thinking about how I want to take. I want to rip that knowing look off his face. I kick and hit and swipe, but I’m clumsy and he’s fast.
“Don’t get sloppy,” he chides. “Focus that anger. Let it sharpen into a point. A sword. A dagger. Be strategic about when and where you strike.”
He moves so fast I don’t see the punch coming. He doesn’t hit me, just jabs past my face, a whisper of air grazing my jaw. It makes me even angrier. I’ve been trying my best and I still can’t catch him, but he can hurt me whenever he wants.
“Go ahead,” he says, not even short of breath. “Hit me.” He taps his chest. “Come on. One punch.”
I ball my fist and swing, but he catches it midair. His grip is brutal. Not enough to hurt, just enough to hold.
He drops my hand like it disgusts him.
