Page 126 of Her Wicked Plan

Tossing the pen to my side, I groan from being unable to gather my thoughts like normal. I used to write in my journal every day! Sometimes even twice a day. This is his doing. He’s got my head more fucked up than usual.

I counted to 100 after he told me to. Actually, I counted to 150 to be on the safe side. That, and the fact that I couldn’t get myself to move. I was still in shock that he fucked me in the janitor's closet, of all places. It’s not where I thought we would have our first time, but stranger things have happened.

No one was in the hall once I popped out of the closet and went to my bedroom. I spent the rest of the day staring up at the cracks in my ceiling, replaying the sex in my head like a movie reel. I had forgotten how good it felt.

How addicting it was.

Paired with the ceiling staring, I kept taking glances at my wrist. The indents from the zip tie—the red tint to my skin from the plastic. If this is how my wrists looked, then I’m sure my face matched the color of his belt because of the pressure on it.

My eyes slide to my arms, the redness dying down more than yesterday. The indents are still there, but you wouldn’t notice them unless you focused entirely on the area. My face, however? Who knows if it’s still red? I would assume not. The belt was tight, but not as tight as the zip ties.

Sighing, I sit up and stash the journal away in its safe space. The guards never bother to search our rooms unless, of course, we give them a reason to.

That’s why I was so worried when I was sent to solitary. With how violent I had gotten, I was afraid they were going to search my room for whatever reason they had.

However, there was nothing to worry about since the journal was still in the same place I had left it.

Kneeling before the safe spot, my chest tightens, and the air in the bedroom becomes stuffy, making breathing difficult. I need to get out of here. I can’t spend another day hiding out here, or I’ll lose my mind.

Going over to the drawer, I grab a white tank top and throw a cardigan over it, having to hide my wrists. As the sweatpants slide up my legs, I can’t help but sigh at the content of the cozy material. They’ve always been comfortable, but Dr. Bennett even provided us with pairs of fleece for when it’s cold in the building.

Always wanting us to be comfortable.

The common room is unusually busy. My eyes lift to the clock hanging on the back wall to see it is already noon. The prime time to be in here. Hushed voices, eyes diverting from their friends to stare at me, but I couldn’t be bothered. I just had the best sex of my life, and I’ll be damned if I let someone ruin my mood.

Eliza is sitting at the piano, playing the song I hate listening to. Not even that is going to tamper my mood. I take it upon myself to join her.

Gasps are heard across the room since I willingly sat with someone. Ignoring them, I watch her fingers move across the ivory keys as if she has been doing this her entire life.

“I took lessons,” she speaks up, reading my mind without even glancing my way. “My mother put me in them when I was young because her mother forced her into it.”

She doesn’t stop playing as I ask, “So she forced you into it?”

She gives a simple nod as her left hand dives toward the left side of the keys. “At first, I hated it. It was awful. My teacher's face showed me how bad my lack of ability was. It always scrunched up like someone trailed their nails down a chalkboard.”

I smile because my piano teacher looked at me the same. “Look at you now, though. You sound great.” Her fingers freeze mid-song, and her head whips in my direction. Her eyes widen, and her brown cheeks flush a shade of pink. Eliza's expressions holds something between shock and embarrassment. “Take the compliment.”

Her skin slowly returns to its original shade before she smiles and continues to play. “It took a while for me to get to this point. I was never a quick learner, which infuriated my teacher, but I had this drive to make my mother proud. I always wanted her to be proud of me.”

She and I both. What I wouldn’t have given to hear those words from my mom.

“I got better. Good enough to have recitals. My teacher was proud, but I didn’t care about her.” A sad smile forms on her face. “All that mattered was the look in my mother's eyes after I finished the last song. I stood up and took a bow while the crowd cheered for me. Their clapping hands echoed off the theater walls. The sound was muffled as I scanned the audience for my mother, who, when I found her, had the biggest smile on her face and tears in her eyes as she clapped along with them.”

I roll my jaw, imagining what a monumental moment that would have been if maybe I continued with lessons and gotten better.

What else would I have had to do to earn that look from my mother? Or from my father, for that matter?

Stephanie used to look at me like that, even if it was because I managed not to burn anything when she taught me to cook Spaghettio’s when I was six. Our parents never wanted us to eat that shit. They said it was poor people's food.

Stephanie got her hands on a can while staying at a friend's house. A friend that she had to lie to our parents about because they would have never allowed that friendship.

She stole the food, and if only my parents knew. It was easy to make, and it tasted good. It made me mad my parents wouldn’t let us have it.

“Did you play any instruments other than the piano?” Her question jolts me out of memory. It confuses me initially, but then I figure she was probably there when I played.

“Only the piano,” I answer. “Like yours, my mom forced me into it. She thought it would help turn me into a proper young lady.”

Eliza’s lips form a tight smile before repeating my earlier words. “Look at you now.”