Her muttered apology sounds again inside my head, growing louder with each repeat.
I loved your mother.
I never wanted to hurt her.
My mother. Who’s dismayed expression when my bullying came to light haunts me, flashing in my head a dozen times a day.
My mother whose disappointment was a palpable entity for weeks, months, inside the house after Esme escaped. Who sided with the girl who ruined her, trashed her employment prospects, made her spend three months with an axe hanging above her head, waiting to see if it would fall.
It didn’t. The police charges were wiped. Not substantial enough to bother taking to court. Just substantial enough to ensure any potential employers in the area would know.
Eight months out of work before she picked up a new cleaning gig, large corporation, no local knowledge to clue them in on why she was unemployable. Half the money. Barely enough to cover rent.
She insisted I keep up with my training, so my part-time work hours were pitiful, barely contributing anything to the household income.
I’m in sweats and sneakers, no warmup, no stretches. It’s so late, I can barely make out the track. If coach sees me now, he’ll throw a hissy fit at the potential for injury, for blisters or a turned ankle on the blind surface.
But I can’t stop. Can’t face going back to my room to change. My breathing needs the tiring pull of hard exercise, the effort of cardio restoring my heart to its usual rhythm.
Bone tired is the only state where I’m like my old self, part way back to normal.
I sprint around the track, my head clearing by the fifth circuit, my body coming back into itself by the twelfth. By the twentieth, I have the delightful pull of exhaustion dragging my muscles.
I keep going. Keep running. Certain that if I hit some magic number, some magic speed, I’ll shed my dangerous attraction to a vile girl, become the person I used to be instead of this twisted, enraged shell, my brain switching off as I steadily clock more circuits of the track.
CHAPTEREIGHT
ESME
The water has runcold for two minutes when I finally force myself from the sheltered embrace of the shower, my skin shining brightly red where I scrubbed and scrubbed, desperate to rub away any lingering trace of Seb.
When I emerge into the steam-filled bathroom, I grab my electric toothbrush and squeeze out half the tube of toothpaste as I use it over and over, trying to rid my mouth of his taste.
What’s wrong with me?
I could have fought. Could have called for help. Instead, I let him muzzle me, let him degrade me, finally let him pour his cum into my open mouth like it was water in the desert.
I can’t believe how much it’s possible to hate myself and still draw breath. No wonder when he choked me against the wall I submitted. No wonder I tried to help when that final oblivion called to me. So much better than a bottle of wine.
And death doesn’t let you wake the next morning, hungover and full of regrets.
But just as I thought he was truly going to do me that massive favour, he chickened out, escaping through the door.
As the steam dissipates, I check my reflection, tilting my head back a little to see the bruises. Not bad now but I can easily predict how they’ll have blossomed come morning. If I leave my hair down, it’ll cover a lot. A scarf or blocky necklace should disguise the rest.
My scars itch and I scratch them viciously, leaving long streaks on the pale surface of my inner thighs. The impulse to do more washes over me. To experience that sweet release as the pain bites and the blood flows.
When it becomes more insistent, I run cold water over the insides of my wrists.
Not now. I’m not falling into that trap again.
Bad enough that I let other people hurt me. I’m no longer going to hurt myself.
As though I haven’t just showered myself lobster red, scrubbed my skin raw, scratched my inner thighs so hard they’re close to bleeding.
I hang on the edge of the vanity sink for a moment, eyes screwed tight, trying to rein in my panic before it can spiral completely out of control.
Company is what I need. I should head for the common room. Sit with the other students, all of us bemoaning how quickly the term breaks go past when the terms themselves linger forever.
