Nearly falling in my rush back to the bed, I curl up in a ball, clenching my fists, my broken nails screaming. My entire body quakes from the memories slaughtering any semblance of peace I found with Molly. With everything I have, I hold on tightly to the sobs shredding my throat in an attempt to escape.
I won’t let them.
It couldn’t have been more than a half-hour since Francesca stormed out of my room, and went to calm Rocco down, who, from the sound of it, went on a rampage and started destroying the house. I immediately tore off my soiled clothing, and dressed in a fresh pair, but it did nothing to soothe me while chaos ensued below my room. That’s when I remembered the journal in the floorboards and found solace in Molly.
For an indescribable amount of time, I stare at the wall. If my eyes even stray towards the dusty wooden floor, all I can see is an image of myself lying on the ground with Rocco mounted over me. I watch the desecration of my soul, like an out-of-body experience. Standing over the apparitions, unable to stop it from happening.
Desperately, I attempt to train my thoughts on anything else—Zade or Daya—but the train derails every time, leading me back towards the beauty room. They’re merely ghosts haunting the hallways of my brain, and anytime I reach out to them, they only fade away.
I squeeze my eyes shut, frustration mounting.
I should’ve listened. Yeah, that’s what I should’ve done. Allow a girl to be mutilated to save myself.
Shaking my head, I thump the heel of my palm on my forehead. How am I supposed to live with that? If I ever get out of here, how am I supposed to be okay knowing that I stood by while awful things happened to other girls, purely to save myself?
They stood by while you were raped.
They did. Do I hate them for it?
I don’t know. Kind of. There’s a morsel of inky blackness unfurling inside of me, and I kind of want to kill them, too.
“No,” I whisper. I can’t expect everyone to be so sacrificial. I can’t expect a girl who’s being abused just as I am to try and save someone else. Try to.
Because that’s the fucking problem. There is no saving them. Bethany is still going to have that mole cut out of her skin. All of those girls in there—they’re still going to be raped and tortured, no matter how many times I step in.
We're all just lambs waiting to be slaughtered, and getting myself killed isn’t going to stop the wolves from feasting.
So, what the fuck am I supposed to do?
Zade’s voice whispers in my mind, and my heart clenches painfully.
Pick your battles. Be smart.
Easier said than fucking done.
I startle when my bedroom door slams open about ten minutes later, the doorknob knocking into a perfectly round dent in the wall. There’s obviously a long history of this door being kicked in.
Breathing heavily, I watch Rio enter the room, carrying a first aid kit and appearing calm as ever despite him kicking down the door.
“Already causing trouble, princess?” he asks casually.
I refuse to answer, tightening my lips and glaring at him through swollen eyes. He raises his brows when he catches sight of my face, causing my cheeks to burn hot from anger. For a moment, he looks furious, though I can't tell who with.
He twirls his finger in the air, indicating that I turn over.
“I have to clean up the mess you made,” he tells me, his face smoothing into an unreadable expression. “You’re getting blood everywhere.”
Huffing, I roll onto my stomach, tensing when I feel his fingers brush my t-shirt up my back.
“It’s not my fau—”
“Everything is your fault here,” he interrupts, his voice deepening with severity. “Don’t ever forget that.”
He rustles through the supplies, sighing like this is a huge inconvenience for him.
“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your day of trafficking women,” I mutter, stewing in my fury. His response is to place an alcohol-soaked pad on my ripped stitches. The burn is startling, and I hiss through my teeth, curses building on the tip of my tongue.
Fucking asshole.
“Your mouth is going to get you in worse situations than this,” he informs me. “What’s it going to take for you to learn your lesson? Getting a girl killed?”
Swallowing, I choke out, “I’m sorry.”
A loud, booming laugh bursts from his throat. I snap my head to him, enraged as his shoulders shake with mirth. His dark eyes are twinkling with the first real emotion I’ve seen thus far. It’s almost as terrifying as him being angry.
“You’re laughing at me,” I say with disbelief.