Page 54 of Walking Red Flag

I was on one about a snowman coming to life when I felt the hair prickle on the back of my neck.

Turning my face, I stared at the guard. Christensen.

He was closer than he was the last time I looked at him, but he wasn’t paying attention to me. He was looking out the window.

“Hey, Christensen. What is it?” I asked.

That’s when Christensen turned, and I realized that the guard in my room wasn’t a guard at all.

I made a dash to climb over the sofa and run, but that only put me at the worst possible angle.

He was on me in two strides.

I’d only had time to lean over the sofa in my attempt to escape when I felt his hands on me.

He roughly ripped my pants off and…

“Done,” Dima said, pulling me out of the memories of the worst night of my life.

Sick.

I felt sick.

I’d done all the things after that night.

I’d gone to a therapist. I’d talked about it with my family. I’d been open and honest about everything that I experienced.

There’d been very bad days, but eventually over time, I’d learned to cope with the horror that had happened to me.

I’d never gotten over it, per se, but I’d learned to deal with it in a semi-healthy way.

Sure, I’d buried it deep so I basically never thought about it, but I was living.

I’d slept with men since.

I’d had many, many boyfriends.

All of them knew about what happened to me, because I made sure to tell all of them so if I freaked out, they knew why.

But I didn’t freak out all that much anymore.

Unless, that is, I saw my rapist at a prison he wasn’t supposed to be at.

The day that he got out was going to be the worst day of my life.

And the worst day of his, because I knew that the moment he was free, Shasha and Dima were going to kill him.

I cursed myself every single night for fucking up and calling the police instead of my brother.

Had I called my brother, he might’ve gotten there faster and dealt with the problem. But I’d automatically called the police, and they’d stopped Shasha from killing him.

Now, he was alive and living in prison knowing that he only had to serve a thirteen-year sentence.

I had exactly two years left until I had to start dealing with the fact that life was about to get complicated.

“Are you even listening to me?” Shasha asked.

I looked up at him and said, “When he gets out…”

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