Liberty
It’s been four days since the fireworks. Since the terrace. Since he pressed me against that railing and told me I belonged to him while the sky exploded overhead.
Four days of drowning.
I can't face Gracie.
Can't look her in the eye knowing what her brother did to me on that terrace—knowing what Ilethim do, knowing the shameful heat that flooded through me when his body pinned mine to cold stone and his breath ghosted against my ear.
I can't face myself.
Every mirror in the guest house has become an accusation.
I catch my reflection and see a stranger staring back—hollow-eyed, haunted, flushed with a fever I can't break.
A woman who should’ve fought harder.
Should’ve done anything except stand there trembling while he whispered promises against her skin.
A woman whose body still aches where he touched her.
I pace the hardwood floors until my feet are raw, wearing grooves in the gleaming wood.
Sleep comes in ragged bursts—two hours here, three hours there—always ending the same way.
I wake gasping, his name on my lips, my hand already between my thighs.
I've touched myself twice since that night.
Both times, I came imagining his hands instead of my own.
His mouth on my skin. His voice in my ear, low and certain, telling me I was his, telling me to come for him.
The first time, I shattered so hard I had to bite through my lip to keep from screaming his name.
I tasted blood for an hour afterward.
The second time was worse.
The second time, I sobbed through the orgasm, pleasure and shame so tangled I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
I lay there in the dark, tears drying on my cheeks, and hated myself with a fury that made my whole body shake.
This is what he's done to me.
This is what he's reduced me to—a woman who gets wet thinking about her stalker, who trembles at the memory of his touch, who can't close her eyes without feeling his body against hers and wanting more.
I need to get out of here before I lose whatever's left of myself.
The thought crystallizes into desperate action.
I grab my keys and my wallet, the duffel bag I never fully unpacked.
My hands are shaking as I throw clothes inside, not caring what I grab, not caring about anything except escape.
I'll drive to Richmond. Find a motel with peeling wallpaper and a deadbolt on the door.
Figure out my next move from somewhere that doesn't smell like him, somewhere his shadow doesn't fall across everywindow, somewhere I can breathe without choking on the ghost of his cologne.
