Page 8 of Voracious

No one will seemyeyes, it’s okay.

It takes different sentences until the voice goes away and I look up. My hair is starting to snap at the ends from the harsh chemicals I’ve used for nearly all my life. I press against the tender spot on my scalp, feeling the sting of the chemical burn grounding me as I inspect my roots to make sure my dark hair isn’t growing enough to be fully visible. Two weeks until I need to bleach it again. I wonder what I’d look like with my dark hair, I can vaguely remember it, but I wouldn’t recognize myself.

Would it make me look less gaunt?

Soften my features or sharpen them?

Would it make me less revolting to be who I was supposed to be rather than who I am?

I lower to the floor, pressing my back against the handles of the vanity drawers under the sink and hug my knees. There are no tears as I stare at nothing. Not space or an object, it’s all blank. The other girls would huddle up in this same position,tears streaming down their faces while they begged for their parents. It wasn’t so anyone could facilitate the request, but they were speaking it into the universe, begging for comfort. The urge to do the same is on my tongue when I don’t have parents.I don’t tell myself the usual story that makes me feel better, I just sit there feeling the walls close in like the 104 days.

Or was it weeks?

No, it had to be days, I counted the sun coming up.

I need to kill someone. I’ll feel better then. It will make me know things and if I know things I can’t forget how to talk. If I know things then I’m not with Yulia. If I know things I can’t go back to her.

Grabbing my phone, I load the forum of sick fucks who trade people’s nightmares like baseball cards. There’s a new member inviting people to a launch, and I click on it eagerly.

My stomach rolls at the use of the word brave. The cunts all have their little fucking code words. Brave equals depravity. The sicker the fantasy, the greater the risk of getting caught. I haven’t heard of TRR so it must be new. None of the names stick out as I go through the thread and there’s no sign off other than the initials. But a teaser is given of one girl that matches Nina’s description. There’s no picture attached, and I push myself up to stand and splash ice-cold water on my face. Cupping it in my hands, I hold it over my eyes to calm the itching before I put new contacts in.

My eyeballs protest at being covered again but it’s a habit I’ve become accustomed to. Marlo’s bullshit about my eyes showing the world that I’m wrong has never stopped. They’re bad, like me, and if normal people see them, they’ll know too.

I hug my backpack to my chest with my hand in the pocket, fingers wrapped around the knife, and press my ear to the door before leaving the bathroom. I do the same to the bedroom door that’s still closed and there’s no movement. But the lights are on. Fuck it, I’ll jump out of the window. My leg will hurt for a day but as long as I keep moving, I’ll be fine.

The house is looked after and there are no squeaky floorboards as I turn the lights off before I open the window. Throwing my bag down first, the dull thud shows it’s higher than I anticipated. There’s no trellis to hold on to and I cling to the ledge, stretching my body to close as much of the distance as possible. I focus on making my body weightless and let go. I hate heights, the drop always zooms out but the feeling of plummeting through the air is nice. My body hits someone else instead of hard ground and I scramble, searching for my bag.

I’m a fucking idiot, I should have kept hold of my knife. Or strapped the backpack to my chest.

A hand whips out, wrapping around my ankle as I kick the cunt in the stomach. It drags me back before I can grab myknife. My lips lift in relief at all the memories being chased away and it’s Yulia’s face in front of me as I turn. She blocks my shot aiming at her throat with more force than the usual opponents have. This is going to be fun.

A deep grunt shatters the illusion of my vengeance as I kick into their thigh and Dima falls on his back, cupping his groin. Curling my lips into my mouth to stop from laughing doesn’t work and I nearly fall over as his boot connects with my ankle. He rolls onto his knees, still holding his dick and I hold my hand out.

“Stop being dramatic.”

The glare he sends me doesn’t help his cause. The ugly dickhead just makes me laugh. But he takes my hand and tries to drag me down as he stands. He doesn’t say thank you, which is rude, and I wipe my hand on my thigh.

THREE

Ana

Once Dima has calmed down and he manages to breathe normally, he speaks in his usual rough tone.

“Get the fuck inside.”

It’s disappointing that it’s not squeaky. I’ve read about someone’s voice altering due to being kicked in the balls. Must be a myth.

I pick my bag up and swing it onto my back while ignoring his command. I only manage to make it one step forward when I’m lifted off the ground and the air gets knocked out of me as my stomach hits his shoulder. My knee hits his ribs at the same time as my shout.

“Get off me, you pervert!”

It doesn’t slow him down as he scoffs at the insult.

“You’re the last thing I’d touch, never mind fuck.”

Because he’s Prince fucking Charming.

His nose has been broken and it has that weird bump from the side while knocked out of alignment from the front. He’s probably conventionally attractive to society but those are the worst people. The ones who are unassuming, just barely aboveaverage that you would never look at them twice, but they’re afforded the privilege of hiding their ugly.

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