His smile stretches like one of those creepy clowns. It’s terrifying but kind of funny too. He lets go of me; I don’t want him to. But then, he undoes his fly and I think my nose wrinkles. I can’t be sure since my face is made of playdough. His hands return to my shoulders and—
Shove.
My knees hit the tile. It should hurt but I’m bundled in bubble wrap. Fingers tangle in my hair, yanking my head back. My heart pounds so hard, so fast; I'm afraid it’s going to burst through my ribs. I’m not tingly anymore— I’m itching. Fixating on the overhead bulb, my vision streaks, morphing it into a mini sun.
“Open up, Bunny.”
A thumb pries my jaw apart.
He pushes himself past my teeth—
This isn’t happening. Just look at the sun. You’re not here. It doesn’t hurt. You’re numb. It’s almost over. You’ve survived worse. He’s not as bad as them. Breathe.
Phantoms from the past sneak out of their rusted cages. Their taunts merge with Mason’s grunts until I’m choking, tears tracking down my cheeks. Not for the first time, the most dangerous of all thoughts blooms…
I don’t want to live anymore.
He finally finishes and pulls out. “I think I like this arrangement, don’t you Bunny?”
No.
Gasping, drool dripping down my chin, I’m unable to respond.
With a pat on the head, he zips up his pants and exits the bathroom. He’s gone no more than a minute before I’m scrambling to the toilet and vomiting.I puke until black vignettes my vision, body slumping to the tile. It’s filthy but it’s cool on my sweat-slicked skin. Above, the yellow bulb flickers.
My lower lip trembles.
Not a sun.
No… my sun is on the opposite side of the country.
And without him to light up the night, I’m slowly dying.
41
Remy
Atrail of ants marches alongside me up the stairs as my sweaty hand skims the railing. On the last few steps, I adjust my grip on the rolled handles of my shopping bag. Dread settles in my bones as I face the door at the end of the hall, looming like a yawning void.
I’ve ignored Andrea’s texts and calls for two days.
She’s probably not even home.Is it sick to hope she isn’t?
I’m such a fucking coward.
Before I can second-guess myself, my knuckles rap against the door.
I wait.
And wait.
Maybe she’s giving me a taste of my own medicine. Reaching into my pocket for my phone, I turn to leave when screeching hinges stop me,
“Rem?”
Hugging herself, Andrea leans in the door frame dressed in a plain white tank and micro striped shorts.
“Um, hey.”
