“I don’t understand.”
“Jolie. . . I’ve been fair. I’ve given you chance after chance. I’ve given you a long rope, and yet, you’ve chosen to try and hang yourself with it, repeatedly. Stop fucking lying to me!” My tone grew violent.My eyes lifted, meeting hers as a wandering pinky pushed inside her small stab wound.
She screamed—another for my collection—as my finger hurt her more than the blade. I moved slowly, stopping at my first joint.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. . . I don’t know what I’ve done, but I’m sorry. I’ll be good.”
Another fucking lie. I pushed in another finger and debated stretching my fingers apart. Her skin was already ripping under my violent touch. I was so tempted to stab my fingers inside her. The need to do so had me shaking. The temptation to damage someone who hurt me taunted me in ways I never could repress.
“This is your last chance. Remember, the other punishment!”
Jolie
The room was dark. Black, like his soul. The silhouettes of modern furniture glowed under the illumination of the busy street beyond the glass. I didn’t look to the window, to the people below on the other side. I couldn’t. I was far too jealous of their lives. . . lives, I knew nothing about, except for the fact that they were better than mine.
I’d rested, if you could call it that, on this bed for hours.
My eyes flicked to Hell. His body had slumped at my side, both of us buried beneath a thin sheet; his arm—a dead weight—lay draped over my waist, proving his claim on me. He was out of it. Lost in a deep sleep. . . somewhere without me. . . if only I could be somewhere without him.
He was huddled close to my left side, like a lover holding me close. But he was the opposite. A hater. A man who thrived on my agony and misery and pain.
I blinked, capturing the image of his face, peaceful and unstrained–the opposite of how I was feeling.
“Why couldn’t you have fought harder to be the better version of you,” I whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear, but secretly wishing that if he did, he’d have ajustifiable answer. “The person I loved so much. Why couldn’t you be what I need you to be? Why couldn’t the hero come out on top, not the monster?”
A flurry of tears danced through the dark, creating clear trails over my skin. My still made-up image would harbor streaks in the morning, putting more stains on my appearance.
Tonight, had been a hard night. . . for me.
And lingering pains continued to echo throughout my body.
After Hell enjoyed my wedding gift to him, one I didn’t want to give—my body—he gave me a gift of my own. Something to keep me quiet when my turmoil kept me awake tonight—a tablet, that allowed me to read books from online stores. An escape from reality and from my daydreams. For a split second, I liked that he remembered my passion for reading, and then, for the whole night, I hated myself for feeling that way.
The device was preloaded with untraditional romance stories. Initially, I was relieved that it wasn’t horror. I’d seen so much of that already, and not on the pages of a book but in the real world.
The big, bad world.
Now, after reading half of one of theromances, I wasn’t sure horror was any worse than romance. That said, I wasn’t sure the story I’d chosen to read was actually a romance. I couldn’t understand how the woman in the story was falling in love with the man holding her prisoner, but with sleep evading me and me already halfway through their story, I’d soon find out.
Sullies of red still coated my fingers as they tapped against the lit-up screen, turning the page of my eBook.
Hell
It was easy to pretend to sleep while she was quiet, lost to a land of make-believe. . . just like always. Transported to a world I’d sent her, but this time, she wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by the words on an electronic page; they guided her way into a story she didn’t understand yet, but maybe in time, she would.
I let out a heavy breath, but I kept my eyes closed. I didn’t want to see the rage on her face if she was to find her courage and try tosmother me with the soft pillow from beneath her head. I didn’t want to see the hate that I’d seen so many times before. I just wanted to feel something else. Something I’d been denied since my conception. Something different. . . before it was too late and life snatched her away from me forever.
Chapter 5
Jolie—aged eighteen
Today, Nessie was up before the sun peeped through the window, and she wanted me up, too. She pulled me down the stairs two at a time, anticipating a fun day.
A melody came from the kitchen—a catchy tune from a popular animation.
Nessie dragged me to the boy humming it. We stopped in the doorway. His back was to us, fully clothed in garments that hung on his bones. He took a sip of whatever drink he was making, and a cough that he almost didn’t catch fell from his mouth.
“Woody?” Nessie’s question floated in the air as she moved a single step forward, her hand still in mine.
