Page 46 of For Cowgirls and Kings
But when I look back at her, there’s only disappointment left on her face.
And I can’t help but wonder if I just made the greatest mistake of my life.
SEVENTEEN
ADALENE
February 14th, 2025
I knowI’ve wished for the end of my existence—or escape at the very least before, but now all of those times, all those reasons, feel like child's play. They feel shallow, weak, and pathetic.
I wanted to die because I was unhappy with my life and the person I’d become. But if that was my greatest grievance against life, then someone should have hit me with a baseball bat and told me to grow the fuck up. I’d love nothing more than to go back and hit myself. But even now, I know that’s not how depression works.
How could I have been so stupid, so naive?Then I at least had the power to change who I was, or who I could become. I was unhappy, but afraid of change. Why was I afraid though? Now I can’t even remember.
Underneath it all, I recognize the untreated depression—it would explain my violent mood swings, and constant need to find artificial means of happiness. But now, now that I’ve suffered something truly horrific, every other“reason”I had for being unhappy with my life burns into a pile of ashes.
I should have been more grateful for what I had—who I had.
None of that matters now.No amount of self-loathing is going to fix this.
I can’t go back. I can’t change who I was before this. I can’t undo what’s been done to me. But I sure as hell can be brave now.
“I have to get out,” I whisper, the sound small and broken, falling on only the ears of ghosts. Suffering the violence I have in the last twenty-four hours hasn’t made me want to die. If anything it’s given me a reason to live. To find vengeance. To find control.
I look around the room, the cracks and crevices almost second nature now. There’s nothing in here that I’ve found useful, yet, not that it matters because I’m still painfully bound. The sun has climbed and fallen from the sky, only hazy light filtering through the small window in the corner signaling the end of the first day.
The first day of the rest of my life.
The blood from my lip is dry now, crusty where it lies on my chin and neck. It was the worst of the blows, although not the only one. I can feel my left eye swelling, and my temple aches from the hit I took to my head.
Their attack was violent and angry and full of so much hatred I know it was personal. But I still can’t piece together why. What have I done, or who do I know that would elicit such a violent response?
That’s a problem for another day.
I lean forward, the chair beneath me groaning. I’m careful not to topple over, because I know once I’m over, I’m definitely not going anywhere. I have one shot at escaping, and even if I have to wait for the perfect moment and endure whatever it is they have planned for me, I will.
I look back over at the pile of medical supplies—the bed itself looks like someone just rolled off of it—the covers turned back, and indented where they’d been laying. But I’ve seen no one even go near it.Maybe it isn’t theirs?
If not theirs, is this even their house? I need to give up the weak act the next time they’re around, and actually start gathering information.
If the mouse pissed them off, and disappointed them, I’ll show them how cunning and ruthless I can really be.
The door slams open again, and I cringe, unprepared for another onslaught of fists. I suck in a sob, unwilling to let them see me cry anymore. But only one set of feet bounds down the stairs, almost tapping lightly, like he’s excited to be here.
“Princessa, lookin’ beautiful.” A shiver races through my body as Marco comes into view, his arms full of what looks like clothing, food, and water. “I’m ‘ere ta take care a ya.”
“I’m fine.” I bite out the words, even as my stomach growls in disagreement. I don’t want to eat anything they offer me. What if it’s poisonous? What if it makes me feel better, just so he can beat me down again?
“Now, princessa?—”
“Stop calling me that.” Spit clings to my split lip. He quirks his head, eyes narrowing at me, before he smiles.
It’s a broad smile, filling his face with false sunshine, the corners of it reaching his eyes. He looks delighted, andthatis the most terrifying of any look I could have gotten out of him.
“Not so scar’d when it’s you and I, huh? Good.” He sets the clothes and supplies down and walks toward me, not caring that I shy away from him. “My brothers wan’ do horrible things to ya, not that I blame ‘em. Yer too beautiful to not be tempted. But I’d rather have ya to myself than share ya.”
I bite my tongue, swallowing a scream. One, even if it is the most evil of the three, is better than three. When they werehitting me earlier, it was him that stood off to the side and watched each blow be exacted to my face. It was his eyes that watched me break beneath his brother’s hands, to beg and scream for mercy. It was his lips that told them to hold me down.
