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With the help from the walls, I reach our bedroom and breathe a sigh of relief when Ryan is nowhere to be found. I lock myself in the bathroom, and slide down the door slowly, the weight on my hip becoming too much.
After a few moments of pitiful crying, I inspect my body. Handprint bruises are already forming around both biceps. A bruise blooms across my hip, too. Luckily, my head isn’t bleeding, though it does feel like a drum line is practicing inside my head.
I sniffle and pick myself up off the floor once more, and I tear my dress off my body aggressively, despite my sore body protesting. Angrily, I glare at the offending dress.
He’s right. This dress did make me look like a whore. Men were looking at me with hunger in their eyes. What did I expect wearing a dress like this? This is all my fault. I ruined a perfectly good night.
I tear at the dress in a fit of rage. The ripping noise echoes in the bathroom as I continue to shred it to pieces. Dark blue glints in the overhead light as pieces of satin fall to the stone tile like forgotten dreams. I’m only satisfied when the dress is nothing but shredded fabric.
I pick the pieces up, ignoring the flare in my hip—I deserve that pain—and toss the pieces into the trashcan next to the toilet.
I walk back to the mirror and view my tarnished body. Mascara runs down my face, making me look like the dirty whore that I am. I can still feel all of them men’s eyes that roved over my body at the restaurant. They’re perversions have tainted my skin, blemishing it darker than the phantom hands wrapped around my biceps.
My fist collides with the mirror, sending spiderwebs of cracks throughout the glass, distorting my face. An imprint of blood stains the mirror and drips down, getting lost in the fissures. I inspect my still curled fist, detecting tiny pieces of glass lodged into my flesh. Blood trails down my fingers and drips on the floor, joining the rest of the shattered glass.
I walk over the shower, ignoring the slices of sharp pain as glass sticks into the bottoms of my feet. I turn the water as hot as my skin can handle, and I scrub at my body, desperate to cleanse my body.
Stupid, stupid, stupid River. Fucking stupid whore.
You deserved that.
Six
river
I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN I’VE died and wandered into Hell. I don’t know what I was thinking—last time I checked I wasn’t starring in Dante’s fucking Inferno.
My psych class ends in five minutes, and all I can think about is how Ryan hasn’t answered any of my texts yet. He came to bed late last night after our fight. It didn’t matter that I rested a tentative hand on his shoulder, seeking his reassurance. He turned away and refused to touch me all night.
I cried myself asleep. I cried myself awake. I cried myself to class.
Now, I’ve reached the end of class and the sunglasses haven’t come off once. My puffy eyes will attract unwanted attention and the last thing I need is a bunch of petty bitches judging my relationship. Plenty of girls in my year knew Ryan and have even gotten a taste of him. Ryan’s reputation was large, which means now mine is, too.
They watch me, waiting for any opportunity to gossip and pick apart our relationship. Fuck giving any of those bitches the satisfaction. Even if wearing sunglasses inside a building is a red flag. I have no choice, hoping they’ll assume I’m hungover after partying all night or something.
Anything to avoid causing issues with Ryan. I’ve already done enough of that lately. If Ryan is worried about his image, surely a distraught girlfriend will tarnish that. I can’t do that to him. He’s worked too hard to get to where he is, despite his father’s reputation.
“Class dismissed,” Professor Trumbling announces. The body of students jumps up at once, rushing out of the room. I take my time, gatherin
g my books and slowly making my way down towards the door. My hip is still sore from last night, and it takes everything in me to keep the limp out of my gait.
“Ms. McAllister, can I speak to you for a moment?” Professor Trumbling says from behind me. I pause, and then sigh with resignation. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. You’d think keeping your head down would keep the attention away.
I force a smile and make my way over to him, already dreading this conversation.
“I just wanted to touch base with you. You seemed awfully distracted today. Need I remind you finals are coming up soon? Getting an A in this class is vital to your career.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Save yourself the energy and keep the condescension to yourself, old man.
“I’m sorry, Professor Trumbling. It won’t happen again,” I respond robotically. I’m pleased by how steady my voice was, even if it did make me sound insincere.
He studies me closely, and I shift under his attention, making sure to tuck my cut-up knuckles behind my back. They’re superficial cuts and hardly noticeable. Unless someone goes looking for them. His stare doesn’t feel perverted, but it makes me uncomfortable anyway. Ryan would say he’s checking me out. I’d say that he can see something is clearly wrong.
What gave it away? The dark sunglasses in a dim room? This is the picture you see in any film. If he asks me to take my glasses off, he won’t find black eyes, though. Just red, puffy eyes from crying too much.
I’ll tell him my dog died. That should work.
“You may go, Ms. McAllister.”
