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Maybe calling her a cheap whore was a little much.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
blair
Blair
The drive home is an out of body experience. It’s like my focus is on the road, but somehow I’m so far removed from reality it doesn’t seem like I am the one with my hands on the wheel.
I grip the leather tightly, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy.
My bare legs feel strange against the seats, and with nothing but the sound of tires spinning against the asphalt to drown out my thoughts I slip further away from the present.
I’ll show you what it feels like to be bad.
The things I did were bad.
That’s right, beg for it.
I had begged for it. Over and over and over again.
My perfect little slut.
His voice echoes in my mind on a torturous loop. I’m stuck on the merry-go-round and I can’t fucking get off.
Aren’t pretty girls supposed to be scared of monsters?
I am scared. I’m fucking terrified. Terrified of the monster I let in my mouth, in between my legs, and into my mind.
I’m even more afraid of the marks he’s left on me. Not the ones you can see. No, those will fade away with time. The ones that have me knotted up with fear are the ones you can’t see. The marks that I can feel.
I don’t know that I’ll ever get my fill of you, Blair.
That’s good, Jackson, because I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go back to the girl I was before stepping foot inside that fucking carnival. He’s ruined me. Broken me so that nothing normal will ever feel right again.
Tiny fragments of me are scattered across that place, just like the shards of glass that cover the floor of the fun house.
I pull into the parking spot directly in front of my building, the sky still that beautiful blend of pinks and oranges that come with the sunrise.
The soles of my feet feel numb, and I barely notice the sensation of loose rocks against them as I make my way to the stairs.
I am operating on autopilot.
Two flights up, turn right, slide the key in the lock. Twist the knob, step inside.
Flip on the lights and breathe.
Nothing feels the same anymore.
My apartment is too quiet, the walls are too white, and the person looking back at me in the reflection of my bathroom mirror doesn’t look like me.
Her skin is dirty and covered in dried blood.
Our blood.
Her hair hangs in a tangled mess over her shoulders, and a newfound darkness swirls in her eyes like black ink dropped into a pool of blue water.
“Who are you?” I ask the stranger, and when our mouths move in unison my breath hitches in my throat.
