Page 5 of Fighting the Darkness

“I’m doing this because I want to.”

She nods. “Good. If you don’t want to drive, please feel free to use David. I’m not planning to go anywhere tonight.”

David is my mom’s driver because she doesn’t drive—ever. She was in an accident as a child that killed her mom, and she has a panic attack any time she tries to get behind the wheel. Eventually, she just stopped trying. Not that I can blame her.

“Thanks, Mom. I appreciate it.”

She stands up, pausing beside my chair to press a kiss to the top of my head. “Any time, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

A smile slides across my lips, surprising me. For the first time since I was kidnapped and my brother was killed, I’m looking forward to something.

It’s about damn time.

Chapter Three

Freya

AfterIfinisheating,I head back to my room to figure out what to wear. What does someone wear to a fight night? And by someone, I mean me.

Since I have no idea, I try to search for an answer, which is absolutely useless. It keeps trying to tell me what to wear if I’m taking part in a street fight. What a complete waste of time.

A glance at my phone tells me it’s closing in on seven, and the fights are starting at eight. Where had the last few hours gone?

With a sigh, I step into my walk-in closet, trying to find something—anything—that might be appropriate. I wrinkle my nose at the massive amount of pastels in my wardrobe. Annoyed, I start pulling them off the hangers and piling them into the corner. It looks like I’m going to need to go shopping if I want to have anything to wear, since only about ten percent of my wardrobe survives.

I shove hangers to the side, getting more and more annoyed as I find nothing to wear. How is it I have nothing that screams fight night? Oh, right, because that wasn’t who I was before.

My eyes catch on something black that’s been buried behind all my other clothes. Lifting it off the hanger, I grin. I don’t know where the hell this came from, but this is definitely what I’m wearing tonight. The jumpsuit is all black, cut low in the front and almost completely backless. Now, I just have to see if the damn thing will fit after all the weight I lost.

Glad that I’d taken the full-length mirror from my closet, I remove my brother’s clothes and set them gently to the side before stepping into the jumpsuit. Once it’s on, I’m surprised that it fits perfectly. This isn’t something that would’ve fit six months ago, and it certainly doesn’t look like something my mom would’ve picked out for me. Where did it come from?

I frown as I reach over for a pair of black stiletto-heeled ankle boots and carry them to my bed. Those will be the last thing I put on because who wants to put on heels before they have to?

Looking back down at the jumpsuit, I head for the bathroom. I love the way it hugs my body, giving me the appearance of having some curves, even though I’d lost most of them over the past few months. Flipping on the light, I move to stand in front of the mirror, but cannot bring myself to lift my eyes.

If I want to go out tonight, I’m going to have to look in the mirror. I’m going to have to face what’s become of me. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I lift my head and force my eyes open. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus enough to take in my appearance.

My thick brown hair hangs around me in disarray. I’m in desperate need of a haircut. My skin is deathly pale, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so pale. I think I was born darker than this. It’s almost sickening.

But not nearly as sickening as I realize just how much weight I’ve lost. I can count every rib—something I knew my old friends would’ve been so happy about. For me, though? It just proves how far I’ve fallen. I always took pride in staying in shape. I was never one of the girls who wanted to be stick thin. I liked the fact that I was curvy and didn’t care what anyone thought. I loved my body.

This new body I find myself in? I don’t like it. I don’t like the sharp angles or the haunted look in my eyes. My cheekbones are harsh against my face, and it’s clear that I’m not at a healthy weight. No wonder my mom’s been so worried.

With a determined nod, I grab my makeup and get to work. I can’t do much about how thin I’ve gotten, but I can do something about the rest of it. And I’ll make a conscious effort to make sure I’m eating regularly because I don’t want to think about what would happen if I lost any more weight.

Almost an hour later, I’ve styled my hair and applied enough makeup to make me look less dead. If I’m honest with myself, I look hot as hell—even with as skinny as I am. It’ll do for the night, and tomorrow I’ll start looking into healthy ways to put weight back on.

I texted David ten minutes ago to tell him I’d be ready soon, and I know he’ll be waiting in the driveway for me. I throw the essentials into a clutch and head for the door. I’m almost to the front door when I hear a gasp behind me. Spinning on my heels, I find my mom standing there with a hand to her lips and tears in her eyes.

“Freya... you look...”

“Sick?”

Mom shakes her head. “No. Sure, you’re entirely too skinny, but you look beautiful, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Warmth builds within me at her words. Of course, she’s not going to let it go that I’ve grown too skinny, and I don’t blame her. It’s scary how thin I am, and I don’t like it. But that’s something I can change. But to hear that my efforts were worth it, that I’ve managed to make myself beautiful—even if it’s just to my mom—means the world to me. I really hope this can be a turning point for me.

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