Page 81 of Exodus

Leave, now, Cecelia. Now.

This time it surprises me how effortless it is to check out. I won’t fight it. In fact, I embrace it. I’m no longer capable of holding my own in these types of high-stakes games. And with him, it seems I never had a chance.

Groggy, I shift in bed, wincing at my discomfort.

I don’t, at all, remember falling asleep, but I lay amidst my destroyed room filled with nothing but open bags and newly purchased suitcases I’d ordered last week in preparation to move home. I’m determined not to leave a single thing behind, because once I cross that threshold, and drive out of the gate, it will be for the last time.

I didn’t expect Tobias to come to me last night and I wasn’t disappointed. For all I know, I played DJ, only aggravating the birds whose chirping now sounds distorted outside the doors. Still fighting, I wipe at my eyes, trying to clear the fog away.

When I’m finally able to keep them open, I lay confused on how I landed in a dead sleep in the center of my bed, my folded clothes intact. Continuing to fight to get my wits, I struggle to raise my limbs. It’s when I manage to lift from where I was comatose that I feel faint and resume my position back on the mattress to catch my bearings.

What in the hell?

Seconds later, an annoying sting beneath me has me lifting to check for sharp objects. Coming up empty, I reach for my cell phone on my nightstand for the time to see I’ve slept the day away and have only an hour until my shift.

That is if I was going back to work.

Which I’m not.

Instead, I shoot an email to my supervisor that takes me minutes, not seconds, to compose due to my blurred vision.

I won’t be coming in. Not tonight, and not ever. I won’t even give my father a heads-up about leaving early because I owe him no explanation. I’m only a few weeks shy of fulfilling my obligation of our agreement and what loyalty I had for him no longer exists. To hell with him.

To hell with them all.

As of this moment, I’m granting myself early parole. Normalcy sounds just peachy at this point—bland, blissful. Determined to get home by nightfall, I try to lift again and groan out in frustration.

“What in the actual fuck?”

I repeatedly blink as I grapple with the gravity holding me down. I’ve never in my life been so tired.

Struggling to stand, I stumble back and steady myself with my hands on my mattress, feeling hungover even though I didn’t have a drop to drink last night. Which is ironic because there’s no better time to indulge than when your ex-boyfriends appear like bloodthirsty fairies after months of heart-shattering absence, busting you just as you’re declaring your love for their brother.

“Ha!” I shout to no one at the utter insanity of it all. Oh, the stories I’ll never be able to tell. Who in the hell would believe them anyway? I’m hard-pressed to, and I lived it.

But will I survive it?

That’s a determination I’ll have to make at a later date.

Determined not to completely crack until I’m in the vicinity of Atlanta, I try again to lift the fog.

I must have passed out folding laundry, emotionally exhausted. But from the looks of it, between packing and staring at the walls, I managed to get enough done so I can leave in a matter of hours if I hustle. But it’s my body that betrays me as I’m forced to sit back down to control my spinning head. It’s been years since I slept that hard. And thankfully, I can’t remember a single dream.

Determined to right myself, I freeze when I feel the burn due to the stretch of my skin at my back, just before I hear the faint rustle of something behind me, something attached to it. And that’s when the burn sets in. When I reach back to palm my shoulder, the movement again draws my skin taut, causing the discomfort to spread. Searching with my fingers, my eyes bulge when I feel the edge of the slippery pad attached to it.

What in the fuck?

Jerking my T-shirt over my head, I toss it to the floor and hobble toward my vanity determined not to faceplant. It’s there I discover there are two pads taped along my shoulder blades.

What in the fuck!

I don’t have to lift them to know what’s there, but I have to see it for myself. I manage to reach the edge of one of them with my thumb and slowly peel it off, bold black ink clear in the reflection.

Raven’s wings.

“Oh my God,” I gasp as I manage to lift the other side. Reeling, I study the unmistakable mark while shaking my head in denial.

Last night, I wasn’t emotionally drained, I was fucking drugged and...branded.

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