Page 40 of Riot

I can’t breathe as I watch Westie discuss more details about it, something they never even asked my permission for. Don’t they need that?

All the pain, anger, and hopelessness I have tried so hard to run from consumes me until I crawl back onto the couch and bury my head there.

How can they do this to me?

Isn’t surviving it once enough?

I stare at the screen until it cuts out, and I still stare at the blank, empty space.

They ruined me. They broke me.

I have nothing but rot and darkness within my soul, and one day, it will consume me. Even the doctors feared what lived inside me long before they gave it a name, and it all started with them, with him, and those are the thoughts that chase me into waking nightmares.

The room spins, the bottle of amber liquid sloshing in my hand as I fall into the booth. The party is in full swing, and faces blur before me, including some of the biggest names in the world. I hear laughter and moans, and it all blurs.

My arms shake, and my skin is sweaty. I know I shouldn’t be doing this.

I know this isn’t right, but no one cares.

No one even noticed me here, trying to hide away with alcohol clutched in my hand. My father is somewhere in the party, celebrating another award win. His band is with him as they fuck and shoot up, leaving me to the circling sharks. Even in my own home, I’m not safe. I tried hiding in my room, but it didn’t work. In fact, it only made it worse. There was nowhere to escape to then, no company to help me. No, it’s better to be here, surrounded by people, even if that means I have to accept the bottles they hand me.

I should have stayed at Kayla’s, but I think her mom is getting suspicious and slightly sick of me.

All I want is to be left alone to do my homework in peace. I have an essay due tomorrow, and I really want to pass to prove to all the snobby kids at that elitist school that I’m as smart as they are and that I didn’t get in on my father’s name alone.

But no.

When the crowd parts and he comes toward me, I know tonight will be no different than the others.

“There she is, our favorite girl!” Westie shouts, needle marks showing on his arms. He always gets sloppy and overly touchy when he’s high. My father either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and I don’t know which is worse. “I wondered where you were hiding. Have a drink, princess.” He thrusts another bottle at me. “We are celebrating.”

“She’s too young,” someone comments as they pass, but they don’t intervene, like it’s a joke.

“Nah, our princess is mature for her age, aren’t you?” He grins as he slides in next to me, his legs coming up to block my exit on the other side, not that I can get my body to move. “Do you want to feel as good as I do, princess?”

“No, I’m okay.” I force the words out, hoping he’ll leave me alone tonight.

“Oh, come on, don’t be boring. Your dad said you could. Besides, we are celebrating!” He pulls out the baggie and wipes off the table, starting to lay it out.

Most girls my age are worried about boys and the dance that’s coming up.

My worry is that one day, they are going to push too much into my system and I won’t wake up.

I don’t want it, I don’t like the feeling of being high, but if I say no, he won’t stop there. I try anyway, even as he cuts the line.

“No, Westie, I’m okay. I’m tired, and I have to be up early for school—” I gasp as his hand grips the back of my head. His expression is mean now, and I swallow out of fear, trying to shrink away from him as he leans in, the stench of alcohol on his breath overwhelming me.

“Didn’t we teach you that it’s rude to say no, princess? Don’t embarrass us or your dad like that.” He forces my head toward the table and shoves the rolled-up bill into my hand. When I hit it back, he smashes my head into the table. “Don’t make me mad, princess. I’m celebrating.”

Tears crowd my eyes as I fight against his hand, but it’s no use. Despite him being high, he’s stronger than me. They all are, and they always have been. I’m just too skinny, too weak, and too young. The attention was once flattering when I was younger. I was their princess, their girl, their daughter when every girl my age wanted it, but as I grew up, it all changed, and now I hate it.

I would give anything for a normal life, a normal upbringing, with a father who loved and protected me.

I snort the line, hating the feeling and hating his hand as his hold softens in my hair.

“Good princess.” His hand slips lower, and revulsion twists my insides. This time, I snort the line on my own, wanting to be numb . . . wanting to forget whatever they are going to do to me tonight.

I jerk awake with a scream. So many memories crowd my head, it hurts. My hands clamp down on my ears as I scream, tears falling down my cheeks.

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