I tried to be quiet, swallowing my words, but my churning stomach wouldn't keep them.
“I really need to talk to Woodrow.”
He was in front of me within a second. I felt the fury radiate off him. The knife pressed into my stomach, making me rigid.
“Don't,” was the only word fear allowed to pass my lips.
To my surprise, he retracted.
“I don't want to hear about Woodrow. He doesn't want to be here anymore, and without him, what the fuck am I? I should just become what Ville wants. . . be just like him.”
“No.” I shook my head to emphasize. “You're better than him.”
“Am I?” Hell’s eyes lowered to the blood between my legs. His fingers smeared it before taking a taste of me to his tongue.
I forced my legs to close, despite the pain, and I forced my eyes anywhere away from the look on his face.
“You can be. You can be sorry, and we can make this better. We can get Woodrow back, and it will all be better.”
“There's no magic way to get rid of me, Jolie.”
“Iknow. I accept you. I accept Woody. I accept this situation and the pain. For Woodrow. I'm his girl. I can be Woody's friend and your outlet.”
I reached out to him, my nervous fingers settling on his back. On the outside, this would look like a stupid move, me comforting the boy who had just raped me multiple times. But he was a part of the boy I loved. I couldn't have Woodrow without Hell. And I couldn't survive without him.
He didn't push me away.
He didn't talk.
He lay down in the cage, cold like me, as we both tried to get some rest.
I wrapped my arm around him, praying he wouldn't lash out, and he didn't.
I nuzzled closer, my snotty nose against his t-shirt, taking in the familiar scent of him.
And I cried. All fucking night.
I woke to the sound of an argument. Ville and Wynter's whining voices were louder now that there were holes in the door. And that was what they were arguing over. . . that Ville hadn't got off his lazy ass to fix it.
The cage was colder, and I was alone.
I sat up quickly, searching around for Hell.
I whispered his name, but there was nothing. No sound but the minor echo of my own voice replying to me.
I lay back down, still tired and very hungry. I'd forgotten how long it had been since my last meal, but my rumbling stomach told me that it had been a while.
My daydreams amused me as one hour drifted into the next. The darkness that often weaved through my reveries was still a reprieve compared to my reality.
A small flutter twisted in my tummy, reminding methat I still had something good.
I closed my eyes, my lips moving to voice the words spoken in my daydream of Woodrow, me, and our toddler in the park. The dream picked up where it ended last, and. . .
A man in a nice suit walked by, complimenting my hair. He stopped by our child, and lifted her into his arms, compliments still on his tongue. I wasn't happy. My protective parental instincts kicking in, along with Woodrow's.
The man kissed my little one's chubby cheeks, and it made me feel evil.
I forced myself to wake up. To face reality before I witnessed him take her.
