Sticky. Thick. Cooling between my fingers.
I grabbed the washcloth and pumped soap onto it before scrubbing my hands. Hard. Over my knuckles. Between each finger. Under my nails until they bent backward.
But no matter how hard I scrubbed, it wouldn’t go away. Each drop of water was like another droplet of Victor’s blood staining my skin. So I scrubbed harder, moving to my forearms. My shoulders. My chest. Then down to my stomach. Over the places he’d marked me like property. The scars and burns and marks.
Why was this affecting me so much?
Victor deserved what he got.
Hell, he deserved worse.
He’d abducted women and did God knows what to them.
He’d drugged my mother to keep me quiet. Keep me compliant. Keep me his.
He broke me apart piece by piece. Told me I was lucky he chose me. Lucky he tolerated me. Lucky anyone would ever want me.
And in those moments, I’d fantasized about killing him. About giving him a taste of his own medicine. About watching the life drain from his eyes.
But I never fantasized about the reality of what that would actually entail. The wet, gurgling sound he emitted in those final seconds. The warmth of his blood splattering my skin. The weight of the knife in my hand.
It wasn’t like in the movies.
It was ugly.
Brutal.
Animalistic.
So I scrubbed harder. My skin turned an angry shade of red. I felt the top layer give way, especially around the scars marring my stomach, reopening wounds I thought had healed. But they hadn’t. Now I feared they never would.
My hands shook as I fought to wash away my sins. But nothing worked. Nothing made it go away.
My chest tightened as I struggled to draw in a breath. The air felt too thick. Too heavy.
“It’s everywhere,” I managed to choke out. “Fucking everywhere.”
The room tilted around me as my breaths came faster, shallower, until I was gasping like I’d been submerged and couldn’t find the surface no matter how hard I kicked.
Maybe this was it. Maybe this was what I deserved. Maybe this was what happened to people who crossed the line from victim to killer.
“Why won’t it go away?” I wailed, still frantically rubbing at my raw flesh. “Why is he still torturing me?” Why can’t I just?—”
“Fuck, Ariana,” a voice thundered, cutting me off as the shower door flung open. Suddenly, a pair of strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me against a solid chest.
“You’re okay, baby. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
I shook violently, clutching Henry’s t-shirt as if it were the only thing tethering me to reality. “It’s everywhere.”
“What is?”
“Blood,” I said with a gasping sob. “So much blood. I can’t get it off. It’s everywhere. I can’t?—”
“Look at me, Ariana.” Henry gripped my face in his hands, forcing my gaze to his. “It’s just your mind playing tricks on you. There is no blood on your hands. Do you understand me? None. You didn’t do anything wrong. You did what you had to do in order to survive.”
“Then why do I feel like this? Like I’m falling apart? Like I’m being punished? Like he’s still inside my fucking head?”
“Because he trained you to live in survival mode.” His expression softened as he admired me with more affection than anyone ever had. “Your brain knows it’s over, but your body hasn’t quite caught up yet.”
