Page 20 of Mortify

"No," I breathe, horror washing over me in icy waves. "No, no, no."

I count backward frantically.

When was my last real period?

Not the spotting I sometimes get on birth control, but an actual period?

Six weeks.

Six fucking weeks.

The nausea hits full force, and I barely make it to the toilet before I'm retching.

Nothing comes up but bile—I haven't eaten in over a day—but my body heaves anyway, rejecting the truth along with everything else.

He tampered with my pills.

The one protection I had, the one choice that was still mine, and he took it.

Replaced them with placebos or sugar pills or God knows what.

"Everything okay in there?" Dylan calls, sounding bored. "Don't take all day."

I flush quickly, rinsing my mouth with shaking hands. "Fine," I manage. "Just the wine on an empty stomach."

"Well, hurry up. That carpet won't clean itself, and I have plans tonight."

Plans.

Probably with another woman.

One who's newer, not yet broken, still shiny with possibility.

I should be jealous, but all I feel is relief.

Maybe if he finds a new toy, he'll finally let me go.

But I know better. Dylan doesn't release his possessions. He destroys them.

I look at myself in the mirror one last time.

Bruised. Broken.

Possibly pregnant with my abuser's child.

This is rock bottom, right? It has to be.

But even as I think it, I know the truth.

With Dylan, there's always further to fall.

I clean myself up as best I can, using his robe since the dress is unwearable.

When I emerge, he's already dressed in fresh clothes, scrolling through his phone like nothing happened.

Like he didn't just violate and brutalize me.

Like this is all fucking normal.

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