Page 135 of Moth to a Flame

I could put the past behind me. Move on with my life, smile and laugh, and have sex. Fall in love. Scream and fight this monster.

I could never forget what he did to me.

Doesn’t matter. Fight, little lamb. Fight him.

The torn piece of shirt is scrunched in my palm. I sit up straighter, gathering strength and courage.

This next step is going to hurt. It’s going to be risky.

I might die attempting to throw this shirt out of the van.

I would definitely die if I don’t.

“Your dead penis,” I blurt out. Not bitchy enough. He hasn’t pulled over yet and he has to. He has to be royally pissed at me and come back here and open the door so I could toss the piece of my shirt out. “I conjured the small, ugly fuck from hell, and guess what? The abomination you had between your legs told me that getting rid of you had been the best thing to ever happen to it.”

The tires of the van screech to a halt. The sound is deafening, especially since we’re alone here in the dead of night.

“You motherfucking bitch.”

The front door slams.

This is it. The monster from the park is coming. Stomping outside. Calling mebitchandcuntand threatening that I’ll pay for this.

Finally, I managed to get under his skin.

I won’t ever be ready to face him, but I have to.

It’s the only way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Regan

Air doesn’t flow intomy lungs. My throat seizes.

You’re strong. You’re strong. You’re strong.

Help me find you, Regan.

I bite the inside of my cheek, summoning the strength Landon kept talking about.

It’s there. I have it.

“Bitch.” One boot, then the other stomp against the floor of the van. There’s something in his grip. Something metallic that glints in the dark. “Oh, you poor girl, teasing me like that. I see you’ve missed me. You need your daddy.”

“You’re not my daddy,” I snarl.

“Yes, I am.” He goes to grab his junk.

Just as fast, he drops his hand to the side, snarling. He’s only had, what, two weeks to get used to his dickless life? Serves him right.

A part of me gloats.

The other part, the fifteen-year-old me, flinches. Can’t help it. My feet push me back deeper into the van. My hands fly to my breasts.

My fist. I have my torn T-shirt in it. I have to throw it out.

That’s what matters.

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