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The only thing that still looks like me is the tattoos. The one along my hairline tells everyone that I don’t really belong in expensive clothes. Rich people don’t have tattoos on their faces. Not on their necks either, especially one that tells the locals I belong to a North Shore gang. And not on their hands. Stopping in front of the mirror, I bring my palm to my lips. The skeleton mouth tattooed on the back of my hand makes the bottom of my head look like a skull. It breaks the perfect image that was reflecting a minute ago, makes me look like a part of myself is still there.
But the real part of myself that I need, I don’t have. The two parts that are a necessity to my happiness are not with me, too far for me to feel, too precious for me to call whenever I want. I can’t risk anyone finding their way to them. I can’t risk Nate finding out about them.
An emptiness takes hold of my heart, digging all the way to my stomach, and before I know it, a tear is falling down my face, all the way to the skull on the back of my hand.
I miss them. I miss them like nothing I’ve ever missed before. And the worst thing is, I’ve spent the last week not arguing with Nate, without fighting back. I didn’t try to leave. I didn’t try to kill him. All I tried to do is negotiate being let outside alone. Apart from today, it didn’t work.
Stockholm syndrome is a wonderfully complicated thing.
My hand falls from my face, and I press it against the mirror. His words from weeks ago are eating at me from the inside.
You won’t realize it. All you’ll feel is happy and in love, and you won’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise.
Like I didn’t believe Caden. I wanted to build trust. I spent this week playing along because I thought…what if I can make this work? What if I could have them—always my priority—and him. Both?
Fuck that. He is never going to let me go. He is going to dress me up, play with me, make me a good little housewife. And to think I almost let him.
I take a step back, looking at the woman in the mirror with widening eyes. Terror grips me, and I run out of the practice, the uncomfortable shoes digging into the heels of my feet.
Before I know it, I’m jumping into a cab, asking the driver to take me to the North Shore. I tell him to wait for me in the parking lot while I run to an ATM. I take out all the money I can.
Three thousand dollars.
Fuck it. I’ll do it again.
The driver takes me all over the North Shore. I go from ATM to ATM, and when he finally drops me home, I’ve got twenty-one thousand dollars with me.
I’m panting as I burst into my house. I didn’t even fucking know you could take out that kind of money. Probably only on the kind of card Nate has. And he has many of them.
The burnt smell feels familiar, and when I look around at the tiny place, barely bigger than Nate’s bedroom, I feel myself relax.
I’m home.
The first thing I do is get rid of the painful heels.
And then the rings.
I throw them somewhere in the living room, feeling like I’ve lost fifty pounds. Fifty pounds of fucking trauma. Smiling to myself, I look around the space, and I scream.
Once, twice, until I can’t feel my vocal cords anymore.
Fuck, this feels good. No matter how temporary it is.
I drop the bag and run to my bedroom, stripping off the dress and grabbing a tight pair of black jeans and a large t-shirt I had cut to a crop-top. It has a sexy she-devil drawn on it in all red. Throwing clothes into a duffel bag, I walk around my house. I add family pictures and other shit that I’m stupidly sentimental about, and I zip up the bag.
“Fuck,” I huff. “This feels good,” I say out loud this time.
The next thing I do is take ten thousand dollars out of the pile of money in my purse before throwing it to the side again. I split them into four piles of two-thousand five hundreds, and I tie each pile with hair ties that are just lying around.
And then I’m on my way. My car is still here from before Nate took me, and I’m surprised it hasn’t been stolen yet.
I’m going to drop half of the money to Nyx because I know she needs it, and I’ll drive with the other half to West Virginia. And then…then, I’ll be free. Free and reunited with my family.
It takes me about fifteen minutes to drive to Nyx’s mobile home. She lives in the trailer park with her dad. It’s a Sunday, so she’ll be here.
Her eyes grow as wide as saucers when she answers the door.
“Kay,” she sighs as she jumps into my arms.
