Page 93 of Deliverance

“Uhm, I don’t know. How about ‘of course not! Why would you think that?’ or maybe ‘hell no. That’s disgusting. She’s my stepsister.’ Fuck! I’d even settle for a ‘never. You’re the only one for me.’”

I turn my head to face her.

“I’m not sleeping with her,” I reiterate.

That seems to only piss her off, though. She throws open her car door and begins storming through campus. Heaving out a heavy sigh, I get out of the car and begin chasing after her.

“Where are you going? Stop,” I say.

She turns to face me in a rage, her nostrils flared as she closes the distance between us.

“You’ve fucked her! Haven’t you? Before!”

I stay silent because nothing I say will help the situation right now. Hurt stabs through her features as she shakes her head.

“Fucking unbelievable. I knew you were a whore, sleeping your way through the female population at this school, but I never thought you’d stoop so…low,” she sneers.

My hackles rise at her tone. Not in my defense, though. Why does she feel the need to belittle Bridgette? She’s not even here to defend herself. She doesn’t even know who Bridgette is. Not the true version. Maryia only sees the bitchy, shallow, attention seeking version she lets others see. That’s not who she is deep down. That’s not who I fell in love with. I fell in love with the poet who said what was on her mind one hundred percent of the time. The girl who was so damn comfortable in her own skin, even if she felt insecure at times. The girl who just got me, better than I’ve ever got myself. She will never know her like I do, so I don’t know why she feels the right to judge her.

“We all have a past. I didn’t think we were in the kind of relationship that judged or treated one another a certain way because of it,” I say.

She laughs bitterly, shaking her head before stomping off.

“Where are you going?” I call out.

“To bed,” she says over her shoulder. “I really like you, Maggie, but I’m fucking pissed right now, and I will say shit that hurts you if I don’t leave now.”

With that, she storms away, her figure growing smaller and smaller by the second until she rounds the corner to the Parris dorm. Well, I guess it’s good she’s self-aware enough to remove herself from the situation.

I guess.

Chapter Thirty Four

Bridgette

My pen finishes its final stroke before looking over the letter. Brad and I didn’t always see eye to eye. Okay, that’s a crock of shit. We always argue and fight, even as recently as this week, but he’s a great big brother. He wasn’t able to protect me from everything, but if he was capable…if he knew what started happening when he was around less and even more frequently when he moved out…he would have. I know it, and for that, I love him.

Slipping the letter into an envelope, I write Brad’s name across it before setting it to the side. I debated on writing a letter to my father. Telling him exactly what I thought of him and that I was looking forward to seeing him in hell. Obviously, I was going to burn. I’ve been a horrible person in my life and I’m only twenty-one. But him? There will be a special section of hell for him, and the torture and pain I suffer from every day will be worth it to witness him swim laps in a river of fire and lava until the end of time.

Grabbing one more piece of paper, I stare at it. How the fuck do I write down everything that I want to say? Everything that I feel? It’s impossible. I have endless amounts of emotions running rampant through my mind.

That’s part of the problem, though, isn’t it?

Instead of thinking and planning, I just do. I bleed all over that page. I sob and ache as I write down everything I was never brave enough to say in person. Everything I wasn’t brave enough to say, even in my first letter. I explain everything, and then I finish with a red kiss to the front of the envelope next to Maggie’s name and seal it.

I wait for fear to hit me, the heaviness of what comes next. It doesn’t, though. Instead, I feel…light. Lighter than I’ve felt in years. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m…at peace.

Standing up from my desk, my feet slowly move across my dorm, stepping into the bathroom before I open one of the vanity drawers. My hand reaches down, wrapping around that familiar orange bottle I’ve been staring at for weeks. As soon as I brought it home, I knew what I was going to do with it. I’ve thought about it a million times over, but never thought once I could drum up the courage to actually follow through.

I feel myself slipping away, though. Perfectly healthy on the surface, but there is no mistaking the rotting decay that is eating me from the inside out. It’s time, it has to be. I truly know that it’s time because I no longer feel the bite of fear in my veins at the thought.

My footsteps are light, practically floating me from the bathroom to my bed, sitting down on the edge of it as I reach for my flask. It’s become a necessity these last few months. A disgusting thing to admit, I know. But it’s the truth. This little silver container is the only reason I didn’t take this step sooner. It’s been good to me, shielded me, so I think it’s only right that it’s here with me now.

Opening the orange bottle, I dump the contents into my hand. I only took four out of the entire prescription originally. Those first two days were the most painful. After that, everything seemed to have faded. Numbed.

Of course, that could have been the vodka.

Ten white pills remain in my hand. They look so innocent at first glance. If you knew nothing, I’d bet you’d never expect what kind of damage they can do. If I’m honest, I’m not even sure what kind of damage they can do, but I have to hope for the best case scenario.

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