Prologue
Mary
Everythingblursinfrontof my eyes. Whatever was in my drink has my head swimming. The pain between my legs intensifies as silent tears stream down my face. My legs are rooted to the floor even when my mind is pleading with me to flee, to get away, but I can't. Not when I watch as the man I love slams his fist down into another man's face—Tyler's face. Blood leaks from his nose, which I think is broken, and when Tyler's eyes clash with mine, I see nothing but anger. I'm not sure why. I-I didn't do anything. He and his brother forced me up here.
I slam my eyes closed as chaos erupts even further in the room, people gathering outside the door to see what's going on. My shoulder hits theirs as I push through the crowd, no one paying any attention to me. The feeling of the wall beneath my hand is what keeps me grounded until I hit the steps out front and almost crash to the ground.
I blink a few times, trying to force my eyes to cooperate, but between the alcohol running through me and whatever Tylerand Anthony put in my drink, it’s almost impossible to see straight. When my eyes are clear enough, I force my feet to carry me away from this house and to the only safe place I know. Even with every step closer to the dorms, it feels like hours have passed by the time I stumble through the doors and toward the elevator.
No one is around when the doors close behind me, and I lean back against the wall, waiting for my floor. I find the hallway empty, and it takes me a few tries to get the door open. I move mindlessly into my dorm, close the door, and sink to the carpet. My arms wrap around my knees, and my body shakes uncontrollably.
I feel dirty.
Used.
I want the feeling of their hands off of me.
With whatever strength I have left, I push myself to my feet, go into the bathroom, and start the shower. The steam fills the room quickly as I grab a razor from the cabinet. It's been a while since I've felt the need to relieve myself of the undeniable pressure in my chest. The pain presses down on me to do so much more than a few simple cuts, but I can't leave Seb. I won't. But how can I face him after what happened? That thought alone makes the panic come back tenfold.
After undressing, I step into the hot stream of water, close my eyes, and hope I'll wake up from this nightmare, but that doesn't happen. I don't wake up because this is real. Everything that happened tonight is fucking real, and I don't want to feel this. I don't want to feel the pain in my chest and my heart. All the things they made me feel.
Tainted and used.
I never thought they'd go that far, but the hatred they have for Seb was enough to take it out on me, apparently. Tyler has tried in the past to make a move on me, wanting what Seb has, buthe couldn't. When I turned him down each time, he always took it personally since every girl bows at his feet whenever he gives them a lick of attention.
Images of what happened slam back into me, and I squeeze my eyes closed, wanting to rip the memories from my mind. A sob leaves me as the pain in my chest intensifies. I can't do this. It's too much.
I bring the razor to the skin on the inside of my thighs and glide the blade along the healed scars there, slicing them open once again. For a split second, I can breathe.
Chapter 1
Mary
Myskincrawlingisthe only thing I can focus on as I step through the doors for my first day back in class. I’m not sure why I thought I would be ready, but the want for normalcy outweighs everything else.
It’s been two weeks since I've left my dorm room—since I've felt the breeze on my skin. I emailed all my teachers, telling them I was sick. It was the only lie I could come up with that might excuse my absence.
The first week, well, I did nothing but cry.
The second week, I barely ate.
Now, I’m a walking shell of myself with no idea how to fix it.
Why did I think I could trust anyone at this damn school? Better yet, why do the people here think they can get away with what they did? I’ve gone over it in my head a hundred times and always come up blank—except for one thing. Status. And knowing the right people to clean up the messes you make.
I find a seat in the back and pull out my notebook, tugging my hoodie lower, trying my hardest to blend in.
During my absence, my professors were nice enough to email me the lessons, so I was able to try and follow along. But I didn't open a single one. So, really, it doesn’t matter.
I'm going to fail anyway.
As more students pile in and take their seats, the professor's voice booms through the room. She reviews everything from last week, and somehow, I miss every single word leaving her mouth. Time blurs together as I sit there, staring at my closed notebook, twisting a pen between my fingers.
Before I know it, the room is empty. I’m the last one.
As I walk down the steps toward the door, Professor Smith’s voice stops me, a small smile crossing her face.
"Welcome back, Mary. Dean Westwood asked me to have you stop by his office before the end of the day." Her eyes linger too long to be considered normal—probably taking in the dark circles under my eyes and the emotionless stare I'm giving her.
