Page 72 of Bitter Truths

“Did you know they have videos? They recorded the whole damn thing!”

“Um, yeah, I guess they did,” he says, glancing away with a grimace.

“Yeah, well, one of you shared part of it on social media, and now I look like a slut. You are going to fix it,” I mutter, clenching my hands at my sides.

The knowledge that hundreds, hell, maybe thousands of people saw that video makes me want to punch his skull. That and puke. I want him to see my pain. I want them all to feel my motherfucking rage.

“Fuck,” he says quietly.

“Yeah. Fix it.”

“But that’s . . . I don’t . . . I’m not sure I can,” he says, wiping his nose like a child.

“Randy, I’m not asking. You will do this. This is the only way,” I insist, crossing my arms.

Meanwhile, my heart is pounding out of my chest because I don’t have a backup plan if he says no. I have to present a strong front regardless of how I’m trembling so badly my legs feel like they may give out. This has to work. It fucking has to.

“You want me to admit to the world that I—”

“Just say it, you pathetic fuck. You raped me,” I scream.

My heart is pounding out of my chest, and I curl my hands into fists. This is the darkness I’m afraid to let come out and play because I want to claw his face, hurt him. I want him to remember me with fear and ugliness. I want him to writhe in the darkness that batters at my soul.

“Sh,” he says, looking up at the ceiling.

“What? You don’t want your mom to know?” I say militantly, making to walk toward the stairs.

“Wait, stop.”

I turn back to him with an expectant look, and I smile darkly when he shrinks into himself. “Okay, okay. What do you want me to do?”

“Where’s your phone or computer?”

Grabbing a phone next to him, he holds it up, and I sit beside him. “Pull up your account.”

He stares at me with wide eyes, his lips trembling as he opens the app. His profile picture is the same image from high school, when he still bothered to wash his hair.

My nose tingles at the slight sting of sweat emanating from his body and, leaning away the slightest bit, I grab the phone from his hand.

“Hey,” he says weakly, and I give him an impatient glare.

He pulls back and drops his eyes as I scroll through the photos. He hasn’t posted since high school. Strangely, the last post is from that night. He’s with his boys outside the house, the glare of the setting sun creating a starburst in the image. Soon after this was taken, I’m going to appear and proceed to get shit-faced.

Looking at the picture, you couldn’t guess what they were about to get up to. They’re clean-cut, handsome, wholesome boys with eager grins and a bright future ahead of them. And they ruined it all for what, greed, anger, fun? As I stare at the phone, I realize that they’re still out there, posting pictures and having fun, while I sit in a basement with Randy fucking Hughes on a dirty couch.

I look for the video with a mental sigh, even though I haven’t been on social media to see the fallout. To my dismay, I find hundreds of emoji’s and comments, many of which are rude. I expected nothing less, but to see them in black and white is startling.

Fuck yeah, bust that shit up

Mm, look at that whore

Slut

Blindly, I stare at the words as black dots dance before my eyes, and once again, my skin crawls with the need to be clean. These people, many of whom are strangers, are commenting on my rape like it’s fucking funny.

Pushing away the rage burning in my heart, I share the damn video and tag Will, Jason, and Chris. It’s a small mercy, but I leave Billy Cross off it to spare his parents any further misery.

Sucking in a deep breath, I type out the comment with trembling fingers, silently cursing when I fat-finger a few letters and have to start over before hitting save.

---