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“Do you like the color? It’s like your screensaver.”
“Of course. She’s based on you. You were always impressed by my drawings.”
“You drew her based on me?”
“Based on my need to feel you’d survived.”
“And here I am.” A tear fell, lonely and cold, as it ran down my cheek.
Remi kissed it away, giving me the courage to tell him some of my story.
“She doesn’t have my mismatched boobs.” I tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. “Rothbart would cut into my breasts with a blade reserved for me. None of the other girls were butchered.” I reached for his ear again and stopped talking, humming the tune of my comfort song, gifting myself a few seconds of serenity before I spat out the next part of my sentence. “I don’t remember every time it happened, but I know he did it lots of times to me. I have a lot of scars.” I started humming again, struggling with the pain this story brought.
Remi’s fingers soothed me, moving to the tune.
But I couldn’t proceed.
I kept humming, creating a background beat for when he joined it with actual words.
“She has this strength that cannot break, a thousand blows and more to take, and yet here she is still standing. My perfect girl wrapped in the scent of a summer breeze, with memories that bring me to my knees, bringing me down as I kiss her feet and plead, darling, don’t give up for me...”
I was rocking in his arms as he sang to me in the shower. I was safe. Free. Because of him, and because of that, I wanted to give him everything, starting with the truth.
“I could never remember the words, but it’s my favorite song. Do you remember the artist now?”
He gave me the truth back. “I actually wrote it for you when we were younger. I used to sing it to you as you fell asleep in my arms.”
“And now you’re singing it to me in the shower. Do you know how romantic that is, Remi?”
“Quite romantic. I guess I’ll have to watch a few action movies tonight.” He laughed, but it held no amusement.
He didn’t say more, waiting to see if I’d continue, and when I did, his hands comforted me. Humming the rest of the song he’d created just for my peace, he encouraged me throughout the tougher part.
“He left me uneven to make me even more uncomfortable than his words already did. Candee would poke fun at every chance she got.”
He stopped humming to voice a quick string of words. “That unfortunate-looking fucking thing was in no position to be poking fun at your appearance.”
“At least her boobs matched, and she didn’t have scars on her stomach that call her a slut and remind her she’s…” I trailed off. I couldn’t tell him the next part.
So, I showed him instead, pulling up the tank of his I was wearing to reveal the words written on my stomach.
His eyes went there, not to my pussy and the rash that covered it from having to shave with a blunt razor for who knows how long. I’d thought so many times about using it to slit Rothbart’s throat, but I knew my physical strength, or the lack of it, would be a weakness. Llewrehtom and Joseph monitored shower times, and too often, they would taunt me with my own thoughts. Daring me to do it.
To get myself killed.
Remi’s fingers roved over a string of words placed randomly on my stomach. Ugly. Infertile. THE DECOY’S SLUT. His flared nostrils huffed out a breath.
Tears rolled down my cheek again, falling on Remi’s fingers as he traced the scar that lay angry and pink around the width of my stomach, intentionally cut bigger than it needed to be.
His eyes returned to mine, stalling at my trembling lips as I spoke. “One day, you’re going to want a family, and I can’t be part of that.”
“No.”
“I won’t be in your future.”
“You are my future. You are my everything, and you will forever be my everything.”
“I can’t—”
