Page 55 of Shattered In Darkness

I pull my knees to my chest and rock, silent, until the steam fades. I am not safe. I never was.

Once the tiles become painful, I make my way back to the bedroom. Walking over to the window, I reach forward to open the curtains. There is a feeling in my gut telling me that someone is near. To my horror, a man stands on the front lawn. He is wearing all black, a skull mask placed on his face. He stares up at me, and suddenly my feet are frozen to the spot. Is this the person who has been sending me these messages?

Before I can process the sight in front of me, a wave of fog rolls in. I blink. The fog passes, and he is gone. Like a ghost in the night.

15

LOLA

I need this to get through the day. Don’t judge me, momma.

That’s what I tell myself as I stand in the bathroom, hunched over the counter, snorting cocaine. It’s been a coping mechanism since momma died and Brody left me in the dark. I still can’t get the picture of her crushed body out of my head.

“Mom! Oh my god, are you okay?”

The wind whistles. The birds sing. The sun still shines. But, my mother does not answer. There is blood trickling out of her mouth and head, and her body is positioned at an awkward angle. One arm is bent backwards, one leg is bent sideways. Her eyes are staring straight ahead but the light has been swallowed, and there is no reaction.

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Please don’t leave me alone with him.”

My sobs are loud, it echoes throughout the land. She does not wake up. She does not reach her hand up to caress my face and tell me that it will be okay. She just lays there. Silent and still.

It was supposed to be a fun day. A mother and daughter day trip. Hiking in the mountains. It was supposed to be a distraction.

It became the worst day of my life.

I bend down and close one nostril, then snort the powder up the other nostril. I close my eyes and inhale the burn. There is a tingling sensation that makes me dizzy, then numb. Thankfully, I know how to put on an act. Marcus will not know that his perfect daughter is on drugs.

Lately, I’m on edge from paranoia. It grips me like a hungry predator. Ever since I received those ominous messages, I can’t relax. Someone was out there watching me, it horrified me.

I walk out of the bathroom and smooth my hair down, taking one look at myself in the hallway mirror. The reflection staring back at me is a stranger. Empty eyes. Lost. Gone. I touch my face. The skin is cold, as if I am already dead. Maybe I am, and this is my own personal hell.

Today are the days I dread. Modeling shoots, being so vulnerable and exposed in front of shady men is a risk. But it’s a risk I have to take if I want to survive my own personal hell living with Marcus.

My bruises are fading. I can easily apply makeup and look brand new. Like a pretty doll. That’s what Marcus says. The mirror is cracked, smeared with old fingerprints. I look at myself, eyes too wide, pupils blown. The top is still barely covering me.

I hate this. I hate who I am when I do this. I hate how guilty I feel when I think of my mother’s face and the life she wished for me.

Sorry, mom. You crushed your skull when you fell during our hike. And I am left with the hungry beast. Your husband.

My phone buzzes, a dull little vibration against the counter.

Unknown number.

I swipe it away, heart pounding. For a second, I think of Marcus. Maybe he’s checking in, making sure I’m not about to let the whole thing collapse.

My skin goes cold. I picture his mouth, twisting around the words I can’t make myself forget. “Don’t disappoint me. You know I only punish you to make you better.”

I fight the urge to throw up into the sink. Instead, I fix my lipstick, dab the sweat off my cheeks, and tell myself it’s only forty minutes until I’m done. I take the bag of cocaine out of my bag and snort some up my nose. Just something to get me through the wandering eyes.

A knock on the door, a voice rising: “Let’s go, gorgeous!”

I smile at my own reflection. A fucked up thing.

Back in the warehouse, someone has turned the thermostat even lower. I can feel goosebumps racing up my arms, between my legs, and over my chest. I cross my arms, but that just pushes my boobs together. The men notice.

They always notice.

Gary or Greg or whatever gives me a new prop. A silk scarf, deep blue, like drowning. “You mind tying this around your throat? We want a little more edge for the last set.”