Page 87 of Beautifully Wounded

It feels good to tell someone, even if it is a summarised version of the last eighteen months, it’s still a relief.

Maybe Ringo was right. Maybe talking does help.

Even so, I know he’ll want to know more about what I was trying to tell him before I got sick. I don’t know if I have it in me to say the words out loud.

I tried once.

After my birthday, I tried to tell my mum, but she told me to stop being dramatic and lying. I came to believe she already knew, and when she dropped me off, I think she knew exactly what Daniel had in store for me.

We move back to the main room, and even though Ringo sits on the end of the bed, I can’t seem to sit still. I start pacing, back and forth, back and forth, trying to figure out the best way to just get the words out and be done with it.

“Angel,” he starts, but I shake my head.

“I don’t know if I can say it. I mean, you know, right?” I ask, glancing up as I continue to pace back and forth. “You already know what happened. I don’t really have to say it, do I?”

Sympathy washes over his features, and I kinda hate seeing it. “How many friends did he have there?”

Oh yeah. He knows.

My stomach roils again, but my anger keeps it at bay. My anger is making me feel alive right now, pumping my life source through my veins, setting my adrenaline alight, preparing me for war.

“Including Daniel?”I ask, but it’s really just an acknowledgement. “There were five the first time. Six the other two times.”

“Fuck!” The animalistic boom flies from Ringo, scaring the life out of me, a squeak leaping past my lips as I jump.

Now he’s pacing, raking his hand through his hair and looking like he’s going to pull the strands right out.

My breathing is fast. Shallow. Almost painful. My heart thrashing, yet almost feeling like it’s about to stop.

“Five? Six?” he snaps, in question.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.” I start rambling as I back away, tears blurring my vision, my head shaking at the sheer anger in his voice.

No one wants to know this about the girl they are interested in. No guy wants to know you were used as the whore at the end of a train line.

I need to run. Where can I run? What will I do if I leave here?

“Angel. I’m sorry.” His tone is less savage this time, and I see his blurry silhouette coming towards me, but I back up against the door, reaching back to find the lock. “Hey, what are you doing?”

I shake my head, not able to speak as I fumble blindly, trying to get the damn thing open as he looms over me.

“Angel, I can’t let you leave,” he rasps, his hand slapping against the door to stop me from opening it.

“But you said I’m not a prisoner.” I manage to mutter, tears searing my cheeks as I keep trying to blindly get the damn latch unlocked.

“You aren’t, Angel. But you’re in no state to go anywhere, and we are locked down. Let’s not forget that I want to keep you safe.”

“B-butyou’re angry at me. I told you—”

“I’m not angry at you, Angel. I’m angry at those fucking cunts that…” he chokes on his words before he finishes his sentence, “I’m angry at your rapists.”

Two large, yet gentle palms come up to cup either side of my face, his thumbs swiping at my falling tears as his face unblurs in my vision.

“You did nothing wrong. You hear me? You are the victim. Everyone else has done wrong by you, and mark my fucking words, Angel, they will pay. They will pay severely for what they did. That’s a fucking promise.”

If I know anything is true in this world, it’s the conviction in his tone. He’ll follow through on his promise.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I whisper, and he nods, pressing his forehead to mine.

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