Page 13 of Mortify

I turn off the water and step out, avoiding my reflection as I dry off.

I can't stand to see what I've become.

The hollow-eyed ghost of the woman who used to save lives, who used to laugh freely, who used to believe in love.

The makeup comes next.

Foundation first, thick enough to cover the shadow on my jaw but not so heavy it looks obvious.

Concealer under my eyes to hide the evidence of another sleepless night.

Blush to give the illusion of health to my pale cheeks.

Mascara to make my eyes look less dead.

Lipstick in the exact shade Dylan prefers—not too bright, not too pale, not too anything that might draw attention from the wrong kind of men.

Everything about my appearance is calculated now.

Designed to please him, to avoid his criticism, to minimize the chances of setting off his temper.

I've lost myself so gradually I didn't notice until I was completely gone.

I blow-dry my hair straight, the way he demands.

No waves, no curls, no personality.

Just long and straight and boring.

"Like a proper lady," he says, though there's nothing ladylike about what he does to me.

The dress slides over my skin like shame itself.

Red silk that clings in all the places he wants to show off, cut low enough to be inappropriate for November weather.

The length hits mid-thigh, shorter than anything I would choose for myself, but choice is a luxury I gave up months ago.

I add the jewelry he gave me—delicate gold chain that feels more like a collar, matching earrings that mark me as his.

The heels come last, strappy things that make my feet ache before I even put them on.

Four inches of instability that he insists make my legs look "less chunky."

I check the time: 11:30.

The drive takes twenty minutes, but he expects me early.

Being late means consequences I can't afford, not with his threats about Bjorn hanging over my head like a sword.

My period is five days late.

The thought hits me as I'm grabbing my keys, freezing me in place.

Five days. I'm never late. Never.

My cycle has been like clockwork since I was fifteen.

The nausea I've been blaming on stress suddenly takes on new meaning.

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