Page 40 of The Favorite Girl

“We tell you what you need, and this is what you need. Lay down, now.”

“Why do they want me to get an IUD?” I rolled my lips together as my heart thumped against my chest.

“So, you don’t conceive. Now lay down, Miss Rao. I have other patients.”

Conceive? I laid down as Dr. Cowell forcefully adjusted my legs into the stirrups. Peeling my stockings off, along with my panties, had to be one of the most humiliating feelings in the world. “Relax your muscles,” he demanded as my legs trembled. “Relax!” This time he yelled it, which only made me clench every muscle in my body all that more.

Taking a few deep breaths, I closed my eyes as a cold speculum was inserted and my teeth chattered.

“You’re pure.” He clicked his tongue and after that, I felt my mind shut off. I didn’t want to relieve those days; I didn’t want to weaken myself more with memories that haunted me of my sister protecting me so I wouldn’t be assaulted.

“You are a pure woman. I’m pleasantly surprised.”

I didn’t hear what he said next because all I could think of was my beautiful sister. And just like that, I didn’t feel anything anymore. Being numb is the safest place to be.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

As promised, when the door opened, Bradley was waiting there. My lower abdomen was cramping, but more than the physical pain, I was emotionally drained.

“I’m sorry,” Bradley whispered.

“Why are you sorry?” I asked as I pushed the cart toward the end of the hall.

“I’m sorry that you think I’m not helping you, because I am, Demi. I’m just telling you the truth, and sometimes, it’s the truth that hurts the most. But, the truth is also what will save your life here.” He licked his lips and brushed his hand across his face.

“Okay.” I nodded. He was absolutely right. This was a fight I couldn’t do alone. Bradley was the one person I’d have to lean on and trust in order to escape. But I didn’t want to just get out; I wanted to save those girls…

The way I couldn’t save my older sister.

The memories flooded my mind. I wasn’t raised in Gatlinburg. I wasn’t born here. I could still picture it all. Us, boarding the plane from our small village in India with the strange men with light skin and hair I’d never seen before. My sister clutching a worn teddy bear, lacing her fingers into mine as our parents counted through stacks of money. They didn’t even look at us; they didn’t kiss us goodbye or shed tears of sadness.

Instead, they smiled. The paper in their hands brought them more happiness than their own daughters.

“Demi? Becca’s waiting for you.”

“Yeah.” I walked in to the small salon-like space.

“I’m so excited to cut this off. You’re going to fit in so much better and besides, then you won’t have to wear a wig. The wigs get really hot and itchy.” Becca clapped her hands excitedly.

“I love my hair.” I sank into the chair and looked at the mirror, twirling the thick, frizzy strands between my fingers.

“Well, you’ll love this look even more. And they will, too. Fitting in is the best!” She grabbed a brush and began to comb out all of my hair, then snatched up the scissors and cut it swiftly. The slicing of the blades hitting my hair just before it fell to the ground had me clench my eyes shut. I didn’t want to fit in.

Four hours later, Becca had me turned the other way and spun me around. “Ta-da!” she exclaimed with jazz hands.

“Holy shit.” My mouth dropped open as I stared at the girl in the reflection. I didn’t even look like myself. My waist-length hair was cut short, and it was now bleach blonde. My hair clashed against my otherwise tanned skin, standing out like I was some kind of side character in a Marvel movie.

“Your lips are chapped horribly. See this line in the middle? Yuck.” She pointed out the line that was embedded in my bottom lip as she tinted my lips in a creamy, nude lipstick.

But it wasn’t from being chapped; it was from being sliced opened when I was seventeen and tried to run away for the fourth time.

“Now you’ll have higher chances of sealing the deal as the favorite girl. Poor Misha…” Becca shook her head with a frown.

I spun around on the chair and looked at her. “She was murdered, Becca. In the peony garden,” I spewed out, finding some strange kind of relief that Becca knew something had indeed happened to Misha.

“Mm-hmm… she was. But at least she’s free. There hasn’t been a favorite girl in years.”

---