I’m doing this for your own good.
You’re nothing without me!
It’s a cacophony of hate and self-loathing that I can’t stop. Even as my shoulders curl forward with exhaustion, and the sticky blood is beginning to dry along my neck and the front of my t-shirt, I can’t quiet the noise in my head.
I’m utterly numb as I head into town. It’s late afternoon, and no one is out as I haunt this place like a ghost—a shell of a girl who once wasn’t so…broken.
I don’t know where I’m heading, but anywhere is better than here. It’s hard to escape the inside of my own head, and I’m so tired of trying.
I’m just…drained.
If I do pass anyone, I don’t notice as I stagger along. It gets harder to pick up my feet as the sun begins to set over the Mystic River. Nighttime beckons me, blanketing over my frame like a shroud as I near a neighborhood.
Seacrest.
The sign pops out, brightly illuminated by a street lamp. Somewhere deep inside of me, I know this place, but I’ve never seen the perfect middle-class homes that line either side of the narrow path. I turn down it, unsure of what I’m looking for,but unable to force myself to continue on the aimless trail I was originally following.
As I pass picture-perfect stucco homes with clear signs of life—toys scattering the drive, and pretty playhouses that look used and appreciated—my eyes scan along the mailboxes. I don’t know why the numbers are so significant, but as I get to one that reads 235, I stop. The number calls to me, and I’m walking up the occupied driveway before I can question myself.
The home is a dull beige, its smooth stucco exterior complemented by a dark, sloping roof. A large window beside the grand double front doors glows softly from within, the dim lights casting a warm glow and an unspoken sign that whoever lives here is home.
I pass a massive black truck in the driveway, only faintly aware of the smaller white car that sits idle beside it as I take the stone path leading to the front doors. I step onto a well-used welcome mat before lifting a fist and knocking lightly.
Realistically, I don’t know what I’m doing. If I were in my right mind, I probably wouldn’t be standing on someone’s front door step, asking for entry. But as my body sways forward, and I hear hushed voices from the other side, I can’t even process the potential stranger danger. It’s a foreign concept to me when it’s the least of my worries right now.
The door opens, and soft light bathes me. My eyes squint as the familiar brunette hair sparks recognition. “Charlie?” My voice sounds distant and faint to my own ears.
I register the panic on my best friend’s face as she shouts over her shoulder for someone to help. I can hear footsteps rushing in the direction of us, but as my knees give out and I go weak, I shut down as my friend catches me, and everything goes dark.
Chapter Eleven
Rosalie
“We’re not sending her back to that house, Marcus!” A loud, raspy voice breaks through my subconscious as I blink wearily. The tone is familiar, but different from the one I’m remembering. This newcomer is aged, maybe an adult?
“I never said we were, baby.” Reassures a cool, calm male’s voice. It’s deep, but soft as he speaks with whoever is arguing with him. “We need to figure out what we’re doing…”
“She’s staying here. End of story.” Snaps the woman.
A hand brushes over my temple, and I realize I’m in someone’s bedroom. I stare at the ceiling, my vision coming into focus on the Rhea Ripley poster taped above my head.
“You’re awake?” Charlie’s gentle tone touches my ears as she bends over me. My head is resting on her thigh, and her brown locks dangle over my face as her eyes flicker across my features.
“What…what happened?” I clear my throat as I turn to look at the bedroom door.
“You don’t remember?” My friend asks.
“No.” She’s still touching me, but it’s…nice. Comforting. And I can’t find the strength to push her away right now.
“You scared the shit out of me!” Charlie says, her voice rising. “You showed up on my doorstep covered in—”
“Don’t say it,” I beg, my eyes screwing shut as my stomach churns at the memory of my soaked shirt.
She sighs, her concern fading as she brushes my strands with delicate strokes. “You passed out, and we’ve been up here. Mom cleaned you up and put a Band-Aid over your cut.”
I nod, looking down at my clothes to see that my ruinedshirt has been replaced with a band t-shirt from a group who would have been considered in their prime twenty years ago. I push onto my hands, and my elbows buckle until I fall back onto Charlie’s lap.
My friend hisses. “Don’t get up. You’re weak.”
