Page 8 of Misery
"For a few days," I admit. The words tumble out. "Started Monday. But nothing specific before. Nothing about..."
Can't say it out loud. Can't name the thing that broke me.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"Because I'm handling it. Because I don't need to run crying to daddy every time?—"
My phone buzzes in his hand. We both look.
You can't hide behind the club forever.
Another. Quick. Aggressive.
Your dad thinks you're safe. He's wrong.
Another.
Soon, little artist. Your daddy can't protect you forever.
The last one breaks something in me. Little artist.
They know about my paintings.
The dark things I create in the middle of the night when I can't sleep.
When the nightmares win.
Skulls and flowers. Death and beauty.
All the broken things inside me spilled onto canvas.
My vision blurs. The room spins.
I'm back there. Blood in my mouth. Hands grabbing. Tearing.
Voices saying what they'll do. How they'll make it hurt. How they'll break me piece by piece. How?—
"Breathe." Oskar's voice cuts through. His hands on my shoulders. Big. Warm. Grounding. "Look at me. Breathe."
I force air into my lungs and meet his eyes.
"You're safe," he says. The certainty makes me almost believe it. "You're always safe. Even when you don't know it."
What does that mean? What thefuckdoes that mean?
Before I can ask, he's pulling out his own phone. Texting someone fast.
"What are you?—"
"Getting you out of here." He pockets both phones. Mine and his. "You're done tonight."
"I can't just leave. Hakon needs?—"
"You can." Another text. "That's from Runes. Officially off duty."
"You can't just?—"
"I can and I did. We're leaving."
