Page 149 of Moth to a Flame

While I won’t let him violate me, he does take his anger out of me in other ways.

Throughout our trip, I’ve been spat on and slapped for that more than a handful of times. My lip has been bitten too. It bleeds every time he sinks his teeth into it, the motherfucker.

He also kicks me when he’s in the mood.

There’s nothing but gray skies outside the small window. As we drive between states or towns, I realize I can’t complain that much. He can’t repeat what he did to me a decade ago. Not until we get to Alaska, at least.

Could’ve been worse.

He could’ve decided he’s done being on the run. Take his chance at getting caught and torture me until I bled out and died.

But he’s not here, in the back of the van with me. It’s been hours since he stuck his filthy tongue in my mouth or slapped me around.

This is better. This is good. You’re better off this way. Silent.

That thought jolts me back into the present moment.

I’ll lose if I accept my situation. If I stay apathetic.

I can’t afford to do either. Not when I’m in the middle of nowhere. Not where there are less or no cameras at all for Landon can hack.

This numbness will get me killed.

Lester needs to be back here. He needs to be furious enough that he can’t stop himself from removing another one of my nails.

That’s my only way to survive this. Hiding won’t do me any good.

I have to suck it up. Face my fears.

A little pain won’t be that bad. I’ve been to hell and back ten years ago. I’ve got this.

“Hey, dickless,” I shout, my voice cracking when we drive fast past a bump in the road.

“That nickname isn’t getting to me anymore,” he grunts.

Tremors break through my body at his ominous voice.

I would shut up. But I don’t want to die.

Damn it, I won’t let him kill me.

Courage. Landon would’ve demanded that of me.Idemand that of me.

“Your pee-hole healed yet, or did you ruin another pair of pants on our last stop?”

Thankfully, I stay in the car while he goes on his bathroom breaks.

I do hear him curse, though.

I did see him change into two different pairs of old Wranglers. Both had stains on them and smelled like spoiled food. He must’ve picked it up from a trash can or something along the road. His ugly dress shirt is still the same one, though. And it reeks.

He growls. Losing his patience.

All I need is one last push. “It’ll take some getting used to. I bet you forget to wipe, too. Maybe you should turn yourself in. Have someone in prison train you to be their little bitch.”

The tires screech so hard that I’m thrown to the other side of the van.

“Ouch,” I mumble as my bruised cheek hits the wall of the inside of the van.

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