Page 28 of Shattered In Darkness

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth close to my ear. “You know this doesn’t happen when you behave.”

He means the bruises. The split lip, the busted cheek, the colors that bloom and rot across my skin. He means the way time slows down right before his palm hits my face.

I nod, because that’s what’s expected. It’s always my fault. Always.

He tilts my chin up, hard enough to make my eyes water. His smile is perfect, cold. “I don’t like having to do that to you.”

Liar.

He likes it. He needs it. Power is the only thing that gets him hard. I know this, I learned it years ago.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The words sound thin, a lie even as I say them. I’m not sorry, not really. I just want the world to go quiet.

He pets me, slow strokes down my arm before his hand slides to my thigh, fingers pressing, possessive, marking me even through the fabric. “If you’re a good girl, there won’t be any more pain for a while. You know how to keep me happy, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say.

He lets his thumb wander, tracing circles close to the hem of my skirt. I freeze and hold my breath. He wants me scared and frozen, wants me to remember who owns me.

His voice drops, softer but sharper. “You’re mine, Lola. Don’t ever forget that.” He kisses my temple, then my mouth, brief and punishing. “Behave and I won’t have to teach you any more lessons.”

He says he has to go out tonight. Business. He says it like it’s a treat, like I earn freedom or grace by being his puppet.

“My good girl can have a quiet night,” Marcus says, smoothing my hair like a reward. “Order food. Watch a movie. Be ready when I get back.”

A coil of dread forms in my stomach. Be ready. For what?

He stands and fixes his suit, checking his reflection in the glass, and flicks imaginary dust off his cufflinks. He’s so composed; no one would ever believe what happens inside this house.

He looks at me again, hard, like he’s searching for any sign of rebellion. “No more mistakes.” I nod, frozen. He leaves a credit card on the table. “If you need anything, you know the rules.”

Of course I do.

He touches my chin one last time, a mock caress. “Smile for me.”

I do and he grins, satisfied. Then he leaves, the door slamming with a bang. Silence swallows up everything.

At first, I just sit there, staring at the wall, at the shadows lengthening across the floor. It’s unreal, the stillness. My pulse thumps against bruises, reminding me I’m still here. Still his.

I am so tired of being haunted by him. By what he does, what he says, by the way he can wreck me with a look or a word or a laugh. He says I’m the problem, that the pain is my fault, my doing, my weakness. That if I was better, prettier, smaller, quieter, there wouldn’t be any reason for punishment.

The sick thing is, sometimes I believe it.

Sometimes I catch my reflection and think: yes, he’s right. I am nothing. I am trash. I am the bruise that won’t fade. I am the daughter who failed.

But sometimes I remember the girl I used to be. I want to be her again. I want to kill her, too. Both at once.

I contemplate the pill bottle. I contemplate the razor in the drawer. I settle for more powder, chasing numbness like it’s air. Maybe it is. Maybe everything else is poison.

I don’t know how to be alone anymore. I don’t know how to stitch the pieces back together. But when I’m alone in the dark, I hope the universe blinks and erases me. Just for one night. Just until the screaming stops. Until the world goes still.

I give up on sleep and pace the hallway, bare feet slapping the hardwood, pulse drumming in my throat. Something is eating me from the inside. Boredom, hunger, desperation, maybe all of it together. I want to claw out of my skin, or just curl up and die. Silence isn’t freedom, it’s a different kind of cage.

It doesn’t take long for the panic to build. The sense that if I stay here another minute, I’ll do something stupid. Stupider than usual. Maybe trash the house. Maybe take too many pills. Maybe rip the sheets and hang myself with the tatters just to see if Marcus cares when he comes home to a mess he didn’t make.

When I look out the window, I see the glow in Sophie’s room next door. Warm yellow. Homey. Almost normal. It’s still early in the evening. There’s still time to feel alive. Our houses are supposed to be rich-people mansions, but I always thought they looked more like asylums. Big, cold, too much glass. You can see everything everyone does, every hour of every night. Marcus liked it that way. Never any secrets.

I slide into a long coat, smooth my skirt, and ignore the pulsing ache in my side. When I slip outside, the air is cold. My heart is thumping, my mouth dry. This is so fucking stupid but I do it anyway.