Page 71 of Silenced

When I head to the web browser on the TV to see if I can access the internet, I shouldn’t be surprised that there isn’t one, but I’m still disappointed.

“Jackass,” I call out to no one, just in case he’s watchingorlistening. I tack on, “Pervert!” for extra clout.

Returning to my channel, I watch nothing but my videos where a sense of pride overcomes my earlier feelings when I uncover the ones that have had ten-plus million views. Never mind the feature on Ellie’s Bakery in Hell’s Kitchen and their brownies—forty million people watched that.

Forty million.

It still blows my mind.

“You weren’t always a wimp,” I mutter to myself, staring at the bandages on my palms. “You didn’t always take Harvey’s shit lying down. It just feels like you did.”

It’s tough being a survivor of abuse.

People don’t understand how you can stay with someone who treats you like shit. But that’s the thing—they make you believe you’re crap. They make you believe that you’re lucky to have them. They make you believe you deserve to be treated that way.

Gaslighting motherfuckers.

I should have realized the truth before we’d gotten engaged—the writing had been on the wall.

It was why my mom had told me I was settling for Harvey.

Looking back, I have to wonder if she saw him for what he was—a monster. Or did she really just think I was settling?

“You can’t control that; you can’tchangethat. Not anymore,” I tell myself an hour later when my brain won’t stop racing at 100mph. “And so what, you had three orgasms. Those were well-deserved. Definitely no reason for an identity crisis.

“In years and years of a miserable marriage, Harvey never got you pregnant and, so what, you’ve got a cum fetish on top of everything else! Take a breath and chill. What will be will be, Cassiopeia. Just like always.”

My words do the impossible—they calm me. My inbuilt pragmatism won’t let me stress over something I definitely cannot control, so the rest of the day is spent in silence, sticking to the channels I enjoy, not just my own, catching up with things I’d been too scared to watch when I was fighting for my life, aware that Harvey was hunting me like I was an injured doe and he was a rabid wolf.

When I start to relax, I know I’m decompressing, a feat that’s only possible because of the cocoon I’m in.

A cocoon that exists because, subconsciously, I trust Niko when he tells me that I’m safe.

Even from him.

Nikolai might be more of a wolf than Harvey could ever be, but I’m no longer a doe.

Injured or otherwise.

15

TEXT CHAT

Troy: I heard that I owe you one.

Nikolai: Why are you messaging in Russian?

Troy: Why not?

Nikolai: You’re a piece of work.

Nikolai: And yes, you owe me.

Troy: He’s dead? For real.

Nikolai: He is.

Troy: Bahahahaha. RIP, NOT. God, I hated that bastard.

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