Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Both of us watch as he smears my tattoo with blood.
“Endure,” he reads the word inked there. “Very fitting.”
I try to pull my wrist free, but he tightens his grip. “You’ll need to endure, Violet, for a long time.”
He releases my wrist, and I think the nightmare is over, but then he traces a line on my cheek with the back of his bloodied hand, smearing the sticky mess from the edge of my glasses to the corner of my mouth. “When I’m done with you, there’ll be nothing left.”
My chin trembles, and I want to look away, to escape his black-hole-like orbit, but I don’t.
“Why are you doing this?”
“You’ll have to figure that out yourself.” His lips hover near my cheek, and with every word he breathes against the blood, a chill spreads across my skin. “Reflect on your sins.”
3
VIOLET
“Morning, Vi!”
I flinch when slim arms hug me from behind, nearly making me spill the soup in the saucepan.
Masking my nervousness, I turn to face my sister, who’s grinning wide.
Dahlia is about a year younger than me, and even though we’re not related by blood—we met in my last foster home—she’s the only family I have.
She’s curvier than me, with golden olive-toned skin, long, wavy brown hair, and the kind of bold presence that makes people stay away. But it’s her eyes that always strike me the most. Big, expressive hazel, sharp and bold, like they’ve seen more than they should and somehow refused to shatter.
Her smile drops. “What’s up with the dark circles? You worked too late and barely got any sleep again, didn’t you?”
“It’s nothing.” I pour the soup into a container and put on my practiced smile. “You know how it is at the bar.”
“Yeah, not sure the tips are worth it. They’re obviously exploiting you. How many hours did you even sleep?”
Three.
Despite the exhaustion, I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept tossing and turning in bed, my mind filled with that stalker and his threats.
“Reflect on your sins,” he said.
What sins?
The only person I’ve committed a sin against is dead.
So why…?
I kept thinking about it all night, searching for the possible reasons he’d say something like that, but I still came up empty.
Since I couldn’t fall asleep, I scribbled in my journal and sketched a few things, and then I was able to drift off, but my sleep was riddled with nightmares of dark eyes and a bloodied gloved hand squeezing my throat to death.
I woke up both terrorized and…disappointed.
It’s not the first time I’ve dreamt of death, and I’m always left with this niggling sadness at the realization that it’s not real.
That I didn’t die like I should’ve.
“I slept enough,” I answer Dahlia, who’s still watching me with a slight frown. “Look, I made you soup and a few sandwiches so you won’t eat junk food.”
“It’s not that I want to eat junk food. I don’t have time and can’t cook to save my life, remember?” She smiles sheepishly, opening the cabinet. “Cooking is overrated anyway.”
I laugh and fix the collar of her jacket. It’s leather.
My fingers twitch.
Why did it have to be leather?
I let her go, and she retrieves an instant coffee packet.
“Eat something. Don’t just drink coffee first thing in the morning.”
“Don’t have time. I’ll be late for work.”
“You’re a med student, Dahl. You should be mindful of what you eat.” I place a wrapped sandwich in front of her. “Here. Eat it on your way.”
She side-hugs me, squeezing me tightly. “You’re truly the best ever.”
I hug her back, her warmth and carefree energy offering me a much-needed reprieve. Dahlia is nothing like me.
She’s a firecracker through and through.
Several weeks ago, she caught Dave trying to harass me, and she pointed a gun at him. No kidding. It wasn’t hers or loaded, but she still used it to scare him off.
She’s always been like this, not hesitating to speak up, shout, and destroy anyone who comes at her or me. I’ve always been in awe of how she couldn’t care less about confrontation or how social anxiety is scared of her.
Dahlia and I met when she was twelve, at a foster home where the parents used us for cash flow and repeatedly hit us—Dahlia more than me because she talked back.
As for me…well, I had a different encounter with the ‘dad,’ another man who only ever wanted my shell of a body.
We ran away and have kind of survived together ever since, leaning on each other, being the home we both didn’t have.
I’ve never told her this, because she’d freak out, but if Dahlia weren’t in my life, if I didn’t have a self-imposed purpose to take care of her and make sure she thrives and reaches her goals, I would’ve killed myself a long time ago.
I would’ve stopped floating with nothing but pain tethering me to life.