Page 9 of To Love the Stars too Fondly

Of course, that’s when I realized Alex had neglected to actually give me her number.

This you?

That one came with a picture of me, but not the selfie I’d sent. This was…something else.

My eyes were shut; I most certainly hadn’t known he’d taken a photo; I didn’t even remember this; hell, was I asleep? The act was unmentionable. Degrading. I hated him, I hated him, I fucking hated him—

I’m sending it to everyone in my contacts unless you reply.

That was the third message.

I dropped the phone like the cursed object it was.

The aura of filth coating me itched. I couldn’t wear this damn uniform. I had to shower.

In the bathroom, I ripped it all off, my skin itching more and more with each passing second. Naked, I felt no better—worse, even—and the mirror revealed a truly pitiful sight. I’d cleaned myself up in the work bathroom as well as I could, but make-up had caked underneath my eyes, and the smell of stale coffee coated me like a film, even sticky here and there in my blonde hair.

Beneath that, I was simply me. A parking garage for creeps like Cliff.

I hated it. I hated him. I hated…me.

In the shower, I scrubbed away the smell, the ruined makeup, but still I felt the grime, inside and out. Behind my eyelids, I saw Cliff touching me last night, felt it even as my skin stung from scrubbing. My body ached, but that was nothing new. Everything hurt, and more hands touched me in the dark, brutal hands that pressed me against wet concrete, telling me to be quiet so they could hurry, promising I could call the cops once they were done, passing me around like a doll as warm blood streamed toward me, staining my hair, my dress, the echo of gunfire louder than the screaming.

Her screaming? No. Just mine.

I blinked, realizing I was curled up at the bottom of the tub, the molten spray of water painful enough to ward off the memory. My own cry faded from the walls. My elbow throbbed. I must’ve bruised it when I’d fallen. When had I fallen?

I shut off the water, too empty to cry anymore.

Distraction. I needed a distraction.

I changed into my most modest pajamas and went to the couch, but before the Netflix logo even chimed, I…

Blinked. And all was dark.

I groaned as I flailed around for my phone, realizing there was a blanket draped over me. When I rose, the oven clock in the kitchen said 3:34.

Apparently, I’d slept for thirteen hours. There were worse crimes.

As I stumbled around in the dark, searching for my phone, the TV’s light illuminated a note on the table next to a cold cup of tea: Don’t work too hard. Love you, Terra.

Who gave a shit that it was cold? I took a sip of the tea and felt a bit of Momma’s love.

Mom did her best, but she’d pulled more double shifts than not since Dad had left.

Finally, I found my phone on the bathroom counter. Three unread messages.

One from Mom. Looks like there’ll be a storm tomorrow. Be sure to pack a jacket 😊

And two from Cliff.

Hey, maybe I went too far…. You kinda drive me crazy. But maybe I need some crazy in my life.

And a second, twenty minutes later: Call me.

All that filth I’d scrubbed away crawled back up like ants on my skin.

I wasn’t going to be sleeping, but I was suddenly hot—much too hot—and so I staggered toward the sliding door leading to the porch.