Page 55 of A Taste like Sin
And I should be relieved…
But I’m not.
Lynn McKelvy feared her birthday—not the day itself, but what it meant. Midnight ushered in a
series of disturbing events that had become a ritual of sorts. They seemed so benign on paper:
receiving a card from an unwanted well-wisher. A few carefully curated presents, all fromhim.
A reminder of the hell she barely survived as a child.
But four years ago, in her case, they seemingly stopped coming.
And rather than relish that fact, it terrified her.
As I finish the last page of the journal, there’s only one method I can think of to salvage what I can
from the smoldering wreckage of my sanity.
Step one: ignore reality—starting with shoving Lynn McKelvy’s diary beneath the pillow in my room
and pretending it doesn’t exist. It’s foolish. Childish, but I’ll worry about the consequences later.
Now, it seems far more vital to wallow in a scalding-hot shower and attempt to erase Damien Villa
from my skin. Scrubbing and soap are no match; he stains my flesh like oil paint, highlighting the
glaring flaws I’m used to suppressing. In the end, I scuttle into a robe in defeat.
My hollow gaze watches me from the mirror’s surface, noticing the subtle ways he’s tainted me. The
skin on my neck flushes pink as if remembering his touch. Even the usual fear surging through my
veins feels different now. Electric, capable of sowing more damage upon my psyche than a few
memories.
Like those of my own hated birthdays.
Simon’s never missed a single one. Those three tortuous days always play out in chilling
predictability. First, the wine—merely a card when I was younger—followed by a wrapped
newspaper clipping from the day I went missing, then the doll, a replica of Leslie’s. Then a rose.
And finally…
I rack my brain for the image required to fill in the blank. Every single year, it came on the third day
without fail, but this year…
Bile congeals into a creeping creature, crawling up my throat.No…I rake my fingers through my hair
as if searching for that one terrible memory. But I can’t find it. How ironic that over a week of chaos
has allowed me to forget.Thisyear, on the third day, my final present never came.
Logic escapes my brain as I throw my coat on and lunge for the front door of the suite, ripping it open.
