Page 14 of Playing with Fyre

A hard ache contracts deep in my belly. I squeeze my eyes closed, grimacing as I try to breathe through the pain. It woke me today, this pain. It’s been coming steadily every few minutes. It’s what I imagine contractions would be like.

Not that I’ll be able to have children. Peter took many things from me…my womb was one of them.

I try a sip of coffee, but it coats my tongue like rancid oil. This is my fault. I let my new, horrifying urges take control. Instead of fighting off my attacker, I let him use me, let him bring me that brief, sickening pleasure, and then walk away scot-free.

When I woke up the next day I was still lying on the floor, the smell of urine and blood thick in the air. I barely made it to the bathroom in time to puke, and that’s when I saw the smudges of blood on my face, the finger marks on my throat. After that, I could no longer convince myself it had been a dream.

My knife is gone. It makes me wonder if Fyre kept it as a memento, or so that I have less chance of defending myself the next time he visits me.

God…how many times has he actually visited me?

How many times has he been standing at the foot of my bed when I wake up groggy from the drugs, my primal instinct to survive desperate to push me out of my lethargy, but failing. How often have I woken up with crusty underwear and the vague memory of coming in my sleep?

It was him, wasn’t it? He’d visit me in the middle of the night when I was too drugged up to fight him, and he’d touch me in my sleep.

I reach for my coffee again, determined to wash away the bitter taste of bile that remains. Despite the toothpaste, despite the fucking mouth wash. The cup pauses halfway to my mouth. Eyes glued to the cup, I watch in fascination as the surface of the liquid trembles like there’s an earthquake on the way. I tighten my grip, but it doesn’t help.

I can’t live like this anymore. This isn’t normal. It isn’t right.

I don’t know who’s more fucked up—the man abusing me in the night, or the woman wholetshim. Because I knew deep down in my heart that I wasn’t dreaming. I might not have known who was in my room, who was touching me, but I knew it wasn’t right.

I’ll never be normal again, will I?

I slowly stand. There’s sudden pressure in my head—impending tears, a migraine on the way, who knows—but it’s distant. I clomp to my bathroom, my feet so heavy I can barely lift them.

Thump.

Thump.

The closer I get to my nightstand, the heavier my body becomes. It’s resisting me, fighting for survival.

Like I did in Peter’s little box.

Ifought.

I fought until I couldn’t anymore, and then I fought some more. But it didn’t matter. He was stronger. He was faster. I didn’t stand a chance.

I’ll never be able to protect myself. I’ll always be trying to escape.

I rip open my drawer. An orange bottle of prescription pills rolls around inside, moving so much easier now that my knife is gone. I pick it up, the drugs inside rattling as my hand shakes.

You can do this, Charlotte. Be brave. It’s the only way. You want this to stop, don’t you?

I’m in a new box. This one’s invisible, but it’s even smaller than Peter’s little cavity under the basement of his lake house in Waspwood Forest. This box is so small I barely fit in.

And it’s getting smaller. Closing in. Walls collapsing, trapping me.

If I don’t break out, it’ll smother me.

Pills rattle.

When I sleep, I’m not in the box anymore. And all I have are those lewd dreams.

It’s a win-win.

Chapter Nine

Fyre

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