Page 15 of Ruined Wolfsbane

I guess I’m showering before class. My head is still a little tender, but I should be able to clean it without too much pain.

I stand up and strip off my clothes. I throw my bloody blazer on the floor and carefully set the rest of my uniform on the bed. Since I only have one uniform, I’ll have to go without a blazer today. Hopefully I can get the bloodstains out before tomorrow.

Snagging my phone, I pad toward the attached bathroom. It has a white marble floor and shower tiles. A mahogany curved vanity sits in front of the large stand-up shower.

I avoid looking in the gold-framed mirror as I start the water. I don’t need to see my torso covered in sickly green and yellow bruises. Most of them are from when I brought up going to orientation last week. That was Patrick’s latest excuse to take his anger out on me.

I used to wonder what I did wrong to make him hit me. Now I know that he’s just a shit person with the emotional maturity of a two-year-old. I’m a convenient punching bag to vent his frustrations.

When the water heats up enough, I put my “After” playlist on shuffle and step inside.

Why yes, yes, I do have a playlist for after Patrick roughs me up.

Weird?

Probably.

Helpful?

Absolutely.

These songs help me lock all my feelings in mental boxes. Without them locked up, I wouldn’t be able to function. I know the grief and fear and pain and hopelessness can’t be contained in my neat little boxes forever. I know the emotions I refuse to feel will break free from their mental prison one day. They’ll rush toward me like rogue ocean waves during a storm. Sweeping over me, crushing me, and drowning me until there’s nothing left.

But today’s not that day. It can’t be that day until Ava’s safe, so I do what I always do. I shove them with all my mental strength into the already overfull boxes in my mind.

The first notes of “Wash Me Clean” pull me from my thoughts as I duck my head under the scalding spray. I let out a soft snort. No amount of hot water and soap can make me ever feel clean. As long as I’m covered in bruises from him, I’ll always feel dirty.

I gently rub my vanilla coconut scented shampoo into the matted chunk of my hair. It takes a few rounds of shampoo before the water runs clear. After conditioning my wavy, midback-length hair, I quickly soap and rinse my body.

I step out of the shower and realize another problem. My head is too sore to French braid or fully style my hair. Sighing, I quickly rake through some leave-in conditioner and gel. I scrunch out as much water as I can. Hopefully my hair doesn’t look like a rat died in it when it dries.

On autopilot, I brush my teeth, pull on my clothes, and pack my bag.

Before leaving, I carefully put on my mom’s gold locket. It has an intricate wolfsbane flower engraved on the front. I don’t know what’s inside because I haven’t been able to open it. Patrick would lose his shit if he knew I had it. I always wear it under my shirt to hide it from him.

After double-checking I have everything, I head out. I listen at my door to make sure I can’t hear him. When I don’t hear voices or footsteps, I quietly leave my room. I successfully slink out of Patrick’s house without bumping into him.

I leave early to give myself time to make it to class at a jog, instead of the fast run I did yesterday.

By the time I reach campus, my head is killing me. Every step makes my brain rattle in my skull painfully. Maybe running while concussed wasn’t the best idea. It’s not like I have another way to campus, though.

Oh well, nothing I can do about it now.

Cutting through the stone courtyard, I head to Wyldhart Hall. I only have English 101 today. Thank God for my easy Tuesday and Thursday schedule. I can’t take three classes like yesterday with how my head is.

As I pass under the gothic stone arch, I pull out my schedule to find the room number. I’m able to make the numbers stop swimming for long enough to note my class is in the same room as statistics. I head toward the classroom and slip in behind a steady stream of other students.

Spying my spot in the second row empty, I head toward it. I sink down in the chair gratefully and lean my head on my arms. Closing my eyes helps with the nausea that decided now would be a perfect time to reappear.

I stay that way until the professor starts talking.

Professor Whitfield is a small, pudgy man in his late fifties. His nasally voice feels like pins stabbing into my throbbing head. I wish he’d shut up. Unfortunately for me, he talks for a solid hour and fifteen minutes.

I need to be able to record the English lectures. This class doesn’t have much participation, so I should be fine on that front. But I can’t deal with his voice for another second longer. I decide to talk to him next class.

In my haste to get the hell out of dodge, I bump into a guy in my class. Flashing him a small apologetic smile, I hurry on my way.

Before I know where I’m going, I find myself in front of Malachi Grimm’s office. Our meeting isn’t for another two hours. Maybe he’ll see me early.

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