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PROLOGUE

LYRIC

I’d be lying if I said I never saw it coming. I spotted it in the moments where his refusal to take the trash out resulted in pleas for change. Every time his deception forced me to swap tongues with an inebriated ashtray, I’d observe it again. I witnessed it after every lost online game known to man.

This version of him repulsed me every time he mashed my face and forced his tongue down my throat. I endured him in the middle of prolonged nights as he fervently fucked what he believed was my unconscious body. His intimidation tactics boxed me in—his callused fingers suppressing my airflow—and even then, I tolerated my suffering.

“You’re praying to a God who can’t save you. Get the fuck up, bitch.”

He kicks at my lifeless body. If I pretend I’m not here, perhaps I’ll fade away.

I peer through slitted lids and see that he’s not even looking at me. He’s just standing there, stunned. I don’t understand why, considering he’s the one who just fisted the roots of my hair, slammed my face repeatedly into one of the handful of corded phones left on the planet, then kicked my already limp body into submission.

I feel bad for the grotesque Bible sitting next to the germ-infested guest phone. A cacophony of sins enveloping the dank pages of the world’s largest instruction manual is the whole reason I’m in this predicament.

After I’d hidden in the bathroom to pray, I was interrupted; the door whipping open and the handle fitting itself into the sweaty wall like a glove. I knew this interaction was going to be unpleasant, and I braced myself for what was to come. My life has been shit and my faith is hanging on by an absolute fucking thread, but my God does not desert me. I reminded myself of that when he snatched me by the hair and dragged me into the main area of this disgusting motel.

Barely ‌able to look up, I see my abuser hovering over me. His disheveled hair frames wild eyes while his bony chest rises and falls dramatically as he attempts to catch his breath. I don’t wait for the apology that I know I’ll never receive. Instead, I make a choice. This isn’t the first time that Jake has hurt me, but it will be the last.

I let out a guttural cry as I peel myself off the crusty carpet. The smell of mildew violates my nostrils as I rise to my knees. I don’t feel as weak as I did a few moments ago while my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend obliterated my face. The warm liquid that coated my skin before dripping onto the floor was just as much background noise as the throbbing in my head between blows. On borrowed time, any opportunity to survey the floor or register the fluid vanished as the last strike cracked through the room, reverberating off the walls stained with cigarette smoke and sins.

I place my hand on my knee to regain my balance before wobbling to my feet.

A gravelly mumble escapes me. “Stay away from me…”

I stumble as I use all the strength I can muster to hold myself up.

Pushing past the pain, I huff and cough, tears streaming down my assaulted cheeks as I brush past him. As quickly as my body can move, I snatch my crossbody bag off the bed along with the charger for my phone, my toiletries, and some snacks. God knows I’ll be hungry later.

I toss everything into my bag and make a beeline for the door. I look over my shoulder when I notice that Jake still hasn’t spoken. In fact, he’s shaking now. His eyes stay fixed on his hands, and that’s when I notice the blood all over them. I reach for the crown of my head and gently pat around. Nothing.

I don’t think too much of it. This asshole has taken enough from me; I’m not giving him one more second of my life.

I glance back one last time as I fling the door to our motel room open and let it slam shut behind me.

My breathing feels labored as I lean forward and rest my palms on the tops of my tatted thighs. I can’t believe I got away… again.

Previously escaping Hell had been a feat in itself. I never thought I’d escape my stepfather. Until I did. I can still taste him in my throat. Every now and again, I can feel him pulverizing my insides. “Wake up, Flounder. Time to play.” His whispers guided my censorship and stillness in the dark.

One night, he was drunk enough that I could flirt my way out of the house. His hands groped, pinched, and inserted themselves into me while my mother watched from her spot on the love seat. Growing up, “no” died on deaf ears and meant twenty-four seven access to me while also giving my mom a break.

He was always wanting. She was always tired. From what? No one knows. She stayed home and watched Oprah all day until he would come home and take from her what he said she owed. It was her payment for being allowed to stay home.

I told Cash I would make a trip to the liquor store for him since he was about to run out of his favorites. After being granted permission from my stepfather, which I thought I’d never receive, I ‘got lost’ when I took a right turn to freedom on the way there.

I dry heave until I can’t anymore. Usually, my core would be sore, and I’d be dizzy standing back up, but this time, nothing. I chalk it up to just getting my ass beat. I’m numb and, oddly enough, I’m okay with that.

My eyes dart around the almost empty parking lot and out to the uninhabited road. It’s dark, the outside lights buzz and flicker, and the only street light flashes red. I shove myself away from the door and rework my bag. I don’t know where I’m going, but anywhere’s better than this shit hole.

CHAPTER 1

LYRIC

ONE MONTH LATER

“Okay, Dee. Yes, Dee. Mhm. Love you, too. See you when you get home.”

I don’t even end the call before I hear the dial tone. Rolling my eyes, I smile as I push my phone back into the side pocket of my zip-up. I reach for a bag of Lay’s Original Crinkle Cut potato chips, and it occurs to me as I drag my feet to the couch that I’m not actually hungry—and haven’t been in weeks. With my depression in full swing, it’s not unusual for me to lose my appetite for long stretches of time, but I at least feel snacky every now and again.