Page 31 of Depraved Truths

“Quit fighting me.” He removes his hand from my mouth, dragging it down to wrap it around my throat.“You said you wanted this.”

This isn’t the Brady I know. This isn’t the boy I had come to know.

Or is it?

Had I missed all the signs? Had he been cruel this entire time, and I had been too awestruck that someone like Brady could be interested in someone like me that I hadn’t noticed?

“Please… stop,” I whimper. He glares at me, and that’s when I see his pupils are heavily dilated. Brady is completely out of it, and once his powerful grip tightens around my throat I know I’m in trouble. “Don’t do this.”

Keeping me locked down on the cushions with his hold on my throat, he ignores the crying and goes straight for what he wants. “You’ll thank me later. The quicker we get the first time over with, the quicker we can get to the fun stuff.”

“I said, no!” I try to get up. “Get the hell off me.”

My panties, he’s shoving them aside, and I buck in a wasted effort to move him, but it just pisses him off more. He squeezes harder, cutting off my air supply, and I panic, reaching out for anything that can help me.

Spots are appearing before my eyes, and right as I am about to succumb to the darkness, my fingers connect with the wine bottle. I grasp the neck of the bottle and bring it down hard on the top of Brady’s head.

“Fucking bitch!”

The death grip on my throat loosens, and I take the opportunity to kick out, hitting him dead in the crotch. I make the hit, and he stumbles backward and into the railing, losing his balance.

Horror erases the anger on Brady’s face when he falls over the side. Surprisingly, a person doesn’t make that much noise when they hit the water.

I clamp a handover my mouth, stifling the scream threatening. I stare at the spot where Brady once stood, trembling uncontrollably as I rise to stand. Rushing to the side, I see nothing but the endless, inky blackness of the ocean. The yacht is still moving at a slow but steady pace, and when a minute passes, and then two, a calmness washes over me. It’s followed by a feeling of euphoria, as if I’ve found my own personal drug, the thoughts in my head become clearer.

There is no guilt. There is no regret, no static that overtakes my thoughts.

There is only peace.

And wannabe-rapist Brady’s body floating off to sea to hopefully become shark food.

I smirk when remembering how I had immediately gone into survivor mode. Chucking the wine bottle into the water, I waited the appropriate amount of time to scream for help. It had been so easy to convince the captain, and later the police, that Brady was drunk when he fell overboard. When questioned about my ripped dress, I confessed demurely that we’d had sex and then continued to drink until he was utterly wasted. Brady was a known prankster, living for cheers of the crowd, so when I explained that he had been climbing on the side of the railing, and lost his grip, no one thought it was strange.

Why would anyone suspect me of any wrongdoing? I was just a girl out on a yacht with my boyfriend. It was a horrible accident. Playing the heartbroken girlfriend wasn’t difficult, considering he actually broke a part of me. And to this day, that’s the story I have always stuck with. I’d waited for guilt to consume me, but it never came. All I felt was relief. He would never have a chance to hurt anyone else like he had hurt me.

Nobody knows the truth, not even Allie. I can never tell her. She wouldn’t understand. Speaking of Allie, she’s been awfully quiet since the bar incident. We’ve shared a few text messages but haven’t seen each other since that night. She’s scheduled to work today, so I’ll track her down.

After pulling into the hospital parking lot, I climb out of the car and check the time on my watch. I’ve just barely made it on time. Jesus, Eli is throwing me off my game. I rush through the back entrance to the emergency department and toss my things into my locker in the doctor’s lounge. Grabbing my stethoscope, I head out to begin seeing my patients. Before noon, I’ve treated a patient with acute appendicitis, two with the flu, a broken ankle, and an elderly woman with pneumonia.

When I finally stop to grab myself a water, I send a text to Allie.

Hey, Alls, want to meet up in the cafeteria for lunch?

The message shows as read, and I watch the dots pop up, disappear, and then pop back up again.

Something’s definitely going on. What exactly? I don’t know, but I’ll damn sure find out.

After another hour of no response, I let the nurses know I’m breaking to grab lunch. They know to page me if they need me. I take the stairs up to the third floor, where Allie’s office is, bound and determined to get answers.

Despite the urge to bust into her office, I politely knock on the door, in case she’s with a patient. I hear a shuffling sound for a few seconds, and then finally, Allie responds. “Come in.”

I enter the office and find her sitting at her desk, her cell phone in hand, and her eyes wide. “Hey, Tess, I was about to message you back.”

“Allie, where the hell have you been, and why haven’t you responded to me?”

She averts her gaze and pulls at the hair framing her face. Her hair is parted differently than usual, shading the left side of her face.

“Things have been busy.” She evades, looking down at her hands before chancing a glance up at me nervously.

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