Page 43 of The Dirty Saint

“What do you mean ‘no?’” I snap.

“What I mean,” she says, angling her body to face me, “Is that I am not going to confide in you when something happens to me. God, you’re such a prick.”

“I just defended you back there, and this is how you repay me? By calling me a name?”

“Were you expecting a lollipop?”

“Ugh, you are such an ungrateful brat,” I bark.

Ezra forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “And you’re still a prick.”

She turns away from me as if we are done with this conversation, but we aren’t.

“Whose blood is on your shirt?”

She shrugs. “I don’t remember. It’s days old.”

“No. It isn’t. It’s barely dry.”

“Well, what the hell do you think happens when some blonde-haired abuser lays his hand on you? You think the blood just stays up there, in your body, like some scared little puppy dog?”

Cringing at the thought, “What else did he do to you,” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Ezra—”

“I’m pretty sure I already answered you.”

“Ezra!” I scream.

She shakes her head, “He reminded me that I no longer want to be alive.

“There. That satisfy you enough?”

I take a step forward and watch as she resorts back to the wall behind her. I try not to let it sting.

“You shouldn’t have stopped him,” she insists. “You should have let him keep going.”

“He was hurting you!” I holler.

“Oh,” she screams. “Like you?”

“Don’t make me out to be like him,” I snap.

“You see this?” Ezra rattles her restraints. “You did this!”

I know.

“And now you wanna stand here and play the good guy? Are you shitting me?”

No.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“I said get out!”

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