Page 11 of Scarred Sins
Fear, terror, and agony are my best friends. We’re a package deal. But love and affection? Even if I want to love, I don’t know how. No one taught me, and no one loved me enough to show me what true love feels like.
“Should I get a gun?’’ I mumble, sitting up from the floor, my back cracking with the motion.
I lean against the couch, with Arson softly purring from behind me.
Briefly, I close my eyes.
Ever since I escaped the terrible fate that my fellow inmates suffered, all I could think about was revenge. The thought of trying to overcome the trauma I was put through without them suffering at least a fraction of what I was feeling angers me beyond words.
My blood runs cold as the memories replay in my mind on repeat, and not even the voices are loud enough to block the images. My throat tightens, my hands shaking as I hug my legs, burying my face in my knees.
The day it all started was the day I lost my soul.
The day my mother, the woman who gave birth to me and the woman that was supposed to shield me from harm, held my hand while a man twice my age raped me, all while telling me to stop crying and take it. It was the day I lost any hope things would get better.
They never got better.
My heart threatens to burst, the pain shooting through my body. The memories themselves are too painful to remember, yet each night I close my eyes, they’re right there, following, haunting me. The nightmares haven’t stopped over the years, only serving as a reminder that I’m not safe.
I was never safe, not even once, and trying to think otherwise is just a pathetic excuse for lying to myself.
Once I get pulled in deeply, I can barely get myself out of it. Despite no longer being in prison, I’m still in my own prison that resembles Hell a little too damn much. The suffering, the agony, and the screams are always there, a daily reminder that it’s not over.
It won’t be over until they pay for what they did to me.
It won’t be over until I bathe myself in his blood.
Stop it, Blair.
A humorless laugh slips from me, and I peel my eyes open. My hand reaches for the bottle of wine that I opened before taking the gifts out of the closet, and I take a big swing of it. Having a stalker should be the least of my concerns, yet here I am, thinking about the possibility of someone caring about me even remotely that he’d stalk me.
It’s fucked up – but it gives me solace, a peace of mind, even if it’s a fleeting emotion.
“...was found early this morning behind the hotel Astor. The attack was brutal, and until we know more, the police urges civilians not to leave their residence after dark. This was the second attack this month, and we may have a serial killer on our hands.’’
Immediately, my eyes are glued to the news on the TV as I sit up and straighten my posture, gripping the bottle of wine in my hands. I was never the one to watch television. Hell, I think I’ve seen perhaps eight movies and a handful of shows in my entire life. However, the channel that’s constantly on is the local news. In case anyone connects the dots between Amy and Blair, I have to see it first.
“What the fuck?” I mumble.
My mind only registers the last bit of the report, and I quickly walk over to my dresser, grab my laptop, and sit on the king-sized bed. I open the device, tapping my finger against it while it turns on.
As soon as I connect to the Internet and open the browser, I start looking through the articles of the local website.
A month ago, a murder had taken place.
My brows crease as I read out the name, and an audible gasp slips my lips.
The man was a regular at the restaurant. I wondered why he hasn’t been around as much, and since his body was discovered only a few days ago, it’s no wonder why I haven’t heard about it yet.
He was loud, obnoxious, and rude. If he didn’t get his food and alcohol within the first five minutes of ordering, he’d throw a fit, create issues for everyone, and often try getting away without paying for his meals and drinks.
And now, the rude bastard that spilled beer all over my head a little over a month ago is dead.
The other victim, the recent one, is Simon.
The same motherfucker who couldn’t take no for an answer. The same man who promised he’d be back to the restaurant until I said yes to going out on a date with him – which would never happen regardless.
Although it’s a long shot, there’s a possibility of the police knocking on my door.
