Page 88 of Iris' Lying Eyes

Grabbing my hair, he pulls my head back. A spike of pain rebounds through my skull, and I bite back another cry as he says, “What about him? You think you can play me now? You’re fucking sick in the head, baby.”

“No,” I whisper. “Roman he did it. He…did.” My heart aches at the confession because Bastion losing his mother is bad enough but at the hands of his father? Devastating.

“You’re saying my father had something to do with this? He gave my mother drugs? The same man who refused to give her mouth to mouth because she was a no-good junkie?”

“Yes.”

The silence that fills the room cascades over me like a shroud, and I choke on the air, wheezing. “Please. I didn’t—”

“You know what your problem is, baby?”

Shaking my head, I bite my lip so hard I taste blood and swallow the bitter truth coating my tongue.

“You’re a fucking liar. No one believes you,” he says.

My stomach drops to my toes, and I drop my head to the mattress with a bitter laugh. Of course, this is what it always comes back to. Iris the liar. Iris the whore.

“Not even you,” I say, closing my eyes.

“Not even me.”

Clenching my wrist, I squeeze until it’s all I feel. Until nothing but the throb of my self-inflicted wound is before me. And when I’m sure I can speak without showing my weakness, I pull up a bitchy smile, even if he can’t see it, and mutter, “Whatever.”

Offense is the best defense. At least it’s always worked for me. I wish it would shut down the thoughts that circle my brain like acid, though.

“Whatever?” he barks, shoving my legs apart and collapsing between them.

Sucking air between my teeth, I grab the comforter like a damn lifeline and sneer, “Rape? That’s how this is going to go down?”

He pauses before the bitter sound of his laughter sends a chill across my skin. “I don’t have to rape you. That’s what you do, right? Fuck your way out of everything?”

Dazed, I shake my head, amazed that my heart has any space left to hurt more. His need to be cruel isn’t a surprise, but the fact that it hits home is. When did I become such a weak ass bitch?

Does it matter? In this, I can’t pretend. Not here. Not ever.

“No,” I rasp.

He rears back, his chest heaving, and I almost laugh at his disbelief when he says, “No?”

But this is no laughing matter. “No. I won’t. Rape me if that’s what you’re after. But I won’t do this. Never.”

“Oh really? And what’s the fucking difference?” His brittle tone drips with confusion. He doesn’t understand, and my poor aching heart clenches once again.

“You are,” I say softly.

He drops his head to my back, and I close my eyes. I can’t look at him. I can’t see the hate. So, when he rises, I bury my head in the mattress.

I have nothing left to lose. He thinks I killed his mother. He thinks Iwouldkill his mother.

So, on a shaky exhale, I say, “I killed Roman.”

I might as well put it all out here. He’ll figure it out eventually, and maybe he’s right after all. I am a liar and a murderer too.

“What?” he rasps.

“He’s dead. Out back, by the trees.”

Silence is my answer, and when I look up, it’s to his retreating back. The last sound I hear before I curl into a ball is a lock slamming into place.

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