Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
But there’s no heating pad.
It’s my skin.
Blearily, I push down my blanket, then kick it off the rest of the way. My body is on fire. I feel like I woke up on a bed of coals, and as I sit up, I realize my breathing is thick and panicky.
Anger and helplessness fuse together to lash me. Tears prickle behind my swollen eyes, but they don’t fall.
I’m sick of crying. I don’t want to do it anymore.
I’m still on fire, though, so I haul myself out of bed and make my way out to the kitchen for a cold bottle of water.
I stand at the counter, reorienting myself, catching my breath.
This whole past year has been a nightmare I can’t wake up from, but being tortured by my own mind like this, forced to relive the worst night of my life…
It’s so fucked up.
I sit down at the table, my shoulders slumped, my posture atrocious. I feel weak and defenseless at this moment. Habit has me wanting to reach for my journal, but I don’t have it.
Slowly, I remind myself I don’t need it anymore.
The journal was for venting these feelings in dark fantasies of making him pay for what he did to me, but I’ve already done that.
And then the rest of the dream floods back, and with it, the reminder of what happened to Russell.
Tor.
Maybe it’s not a coincidence that his name is the first part of tormentor, because right now, that’s how I’m feeling.
I remember being pinned to my door, his hand wrapped around my throat.
He kissed me.
He killed my ex-boyfriend.
I killed his brother, but I’m not sorry about that.
Fuck.
I’m still exhausted, so I try to clear my mind. I need to go back to sleep, but I’m afraid to. Not only because I’d rather die than ever have to relive that night at the lake house again, but because unlike my real memories, the dream I just had got blurry in some places. Maybe it’s because of my conflicted feelings about him right now and the fact that he was chasing me through the first two parts of the dream, but when I was in Tim’s bedroom, when he was on top of me… it felt more like Tor than Tim.
Dread swallows me up even thinking about the dream, so I push it away.
I don’t want to think about this anymore.
I don’t want to risk going back to sleep and falling back into it, either, so I don’t. Instead, I take a quick, cold shower to bring my body temperature down. After that, I start the laundry my mom asked me to do a while ago, then do the dishes, too.
By the time the sun comes up, I feel fried, so I go back to my bedroom. I’m hoping to avoid talking to my mom for as long as possible, so I curl up in bed and pull the blanket back up to my neck. If she comes in, I’ll pretend to be asleep.
___
Turns out, I don’t have to pretend.
Fortunately, I fall into a dreamless sleep this time, and when my eyes open again, it’s afternoon. I didn’t sleep well either time, and as soon as consciousness hits, I’m pretty confident it’s going to be a bad day.
No use putting it off, I suppose.
My hair is still a little damp from the shower I took earlier, but I don’t plan on doing anything with it. I give myself pigtail braids so my hair will be wavy later when it dries, then I put on a little makeup.
I have a closing shift at work tonight. I didn’t think I’d make it on account of being arrested, but now the threat of arrest doesn’t loom quite so imminently.
Once I’m dressed, I open my bedroom door. The TV is on, so Mom is probably home.
Sure enough, I find her in the kitchen with a mixing bowl and an assortment of ingredients spread out across the countertop.
“Do you know where my lasagna pans are?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I think we’re out.”
She looks tired, and now irritated on top of it. “I almost bought one at the store, but I could have sworn I had one at home. Did you use it for something?”
I shrug, not having the energy to care about a disposable tin pan right now. “Would you be able to drop me off at work today? And pick me up?”
“Why can’t you drive yourself?”
“I don’t have a car right now.”
“Can’t you drive Torrance’s car? That’s why he let you borrow it, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, but I don’t have it right now. It’s a long story, but we went to Holroyd’s for breakfast yesterday, and I left my car there to ride with him, but then he ended up bringing me home—”
Mom is looking at me like I’m a drooling idiot, so I stop talking. “The car’s in the driveway.”