Page 30 of There Are No Saints

He’s good-looking, decent at sex, and better at conversation, though he has a tendency to get preachy. He’s judgmental as fuck about me bartending at Zam Zam because he says half the regulars are alcoholics and I’m fueling their addiction. Never mind that I methimat Zam Zam, and he’s hardly a teetotaler.

Much like Erin, Josh didn’t notice when I disappeared for four days. We only meet up once every week or two, both of us busy with work and side projects.

I haven’t fucked him since the incident. I haven’t fucked anybody since then, and I’m not sure how I’ll react when I do.

Even though that maniac didn’t rape me, I feel just as violated. There’s no way to compare trauma, and I don’t want to try. But the terror I felt, and the physical pain, can’t be that far off.

Sometimes I just want to forget the whole thing.

Other moments I’m filled with a deep, roiling rage. I want to find that motherfucker. I want to hunt him down. And I want to cut off little pieces of him until I start to feel better.

That isn’t going to happen, though. It’s pretty fucking clear the cops aren’t doing shit because they don’t believe what I told them. Even if they did, there’s no witnesses and no evidence.I’mnot even a good witness.

Besides . . . I don’t believe in revenge.

This isn’t the first time in my life someone hurt me. Holding onto the anger, stewing in the rage, will only boil me alive from the inside. I learned that the hard way.

What could I do, anyway? I’m 5’5, 112 lbs. I’ve never punched anyone in my life. Even with a taser gun and a pile of duct tape, I’d have a hard time subduing a fully grown male. I have no illusions about my ability to fight, to hurt, to kill.

It’s hard to let go, but that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to tell myself that I’m alive, I’m healing. As long as I’m still breathing, I can keep moving forward. Everything can be overcome except death.

Even if I could find that asshole, all I’d do is get myself killed.

I hurry into the house, knowing Josh will be annoyed if I’m late again.

Joanna passes me on the stairs, likewise hurrying to a date with her long-term boyfriend Paul, as I jog up the three flights to my attic room.

“You look gorgeous!” I tell her.

“You too!” she lies.

I laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m about to change.”

I strip off my clothes, sweaty from skating around the park with the dogs. Even though we’re well into October and the sky was cloudy, it was close to eighty degrees, muggy and humid.

I consider rinsing off in the shower, but I don’t really have time. Instead, I pull a black mini dress out of the closet, along with pair of suede boots.

The glint of silver on my chest catches my eye. I pause for a moment in the middle of the room, looking down at my own naked body.

I never removed the piercings.

Maybe I should, because every time I see them, I remember the blinding, burning pain as that psychopath shoved a needle through my nipple.

But it also reminds me that I ran down that fucking mountain, naked and half dead. I survived. In a sense, I stole these silver rings from him, because he thought they’d adorn my corpse.

Shimmying into the dress, I look around for some clean underwear. It’s been two weeks since I hauled my clothes down to the laundromat, and I’m in short supply. Desperate and late, I snatch up the panties off the floor, pulling them on.

“What the fuck,”I mutter, as wetness presses against my pussy lips.

Hooking my thumbs on either side of the briefs, I lower them to knee level.

I examine the crotch of the underwear, trying to figure out if I got my period without noticing. It’s hard to tell on the black material.

Stepping out of the panties, I rub my thumb across the strip of cotton sewn into the crotch. It feels distinctly slippery. Raising my fingers to my face, I smell a faint bleachy scent.

I drop the panties on the floor, heart racing.

I know what cum smells like.

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