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Romy
The cracks creep along the bathroom ceiling like spider veins, crawling between the flaking paint and the heavy water bubbles waiting for the worst possible moment to burst.
Gripping the edge of the bathtub, I heave myself into a sitting position and inspect my body. Through the lukewarm water, I trace the purple and yellow bruises on my thighs. The blood blisters clustered on my knuckles. Then I lift a hand to my throat and gingerly touch the bite marks I know are decorating my neck.
It wasn’t meant to end like that.
And it wouldn’t have if he hadn’t touched me while I was sleeping. When he makes me visit these men, I know how to take my mind elsewhere. Detach my brain from my body withering on the bed and let it fly free, high above the storm clouds, where the sun still shines bright.
But I was asleep. I wasn’t ready for his hand to slide up my leg, for his hot breath to sizzle against the shell of my ear. Call it instinct. Call it habit. But growing up in the pustosh’, I learned that when a man touches you while you’re sleeping, you fight.
Taking a large gulp of air, I slide down the bathtub and submerge myself. The cracks on the ceiling wobble, distorted by the water.
It’s been two days since I killed a man with my bare hands.
Two days since I let the Devil in.
Every time I blink, I see him behind my fucking eyelids. That blistering amber stare. That demonic grin. The thought of him sends an ice-cold shiver down my spine and a scorching heat between my thighs.
Lungs burning, I slide my hands to the rim of the bathtub to pull myself up when a shadow in the doorway catches my eye.
I lunge forward, but it’s too late. A hand is around my neck, pinning me to the bottom of the bath.
Fuck.
I thrash my arms and legs, clawing at the strong forearm holding me down. But the grip on my throat tightens, unrelenting. My lungs are screaming, and the wobbly, distorted ceiling begins to fade behind a veil of black spots…
Die before you die.
The voice that slices through the chaos in my head is my own. Serene and sensible. Die before you die.
Fighting against the instinct to thrash and gargle and beat against the weight on my chest, I force my muscles to relax. Not fighting for my life feels like the most unnatural thing in the world to me because it’s all I’ve ever done.
I’m fading. Even the sun rays above the clouds are dimming.
Suddenly, the hand on my throat moves to my head, yanking me upright by a fistful of my hair.
Sweet, sweet oxygen. I greedily suck it between gasping and choking and spluttering into the dirty bathwater.
Perched on the edge of the bathtub is Mak. Calmly rolling down his shirt sleeve, wiping his hand on my towel. He tuts, shaking his head. “Too slow, feniks. What do you always need to remember?”
I gulp in the humid air, bringing my knees up to my burning chest. “That you’re a bastard,” I choke out, my voice hoarse.
“No, the other thing.”
He pins me with a glare, blue eyes shimmering with annoyance.
“Die before you die,” I spit out, massaging the soft spot under my chin. “But I was too slow.”
He nods. “Way too slow. I could have killed you.”
“But you wouldn’t have.”
A smirk lingers on his pillowy lips. We both know I’m right.
Heart rate finally beginning to slow, I rest my head against the back of the tub and close my eyes. Die before you die. It’s the best thing Mak ever taught me. If you learn to convincingly play dead, whoever is attacking you will stop, believing they have killed you. Then you strike when they least expect it. You rise from the ashes like a phoenix and exact revenge.
Mak’s lucky I didn’t exact my revenge on him. If he wasn’t my best friend—well, my only friend—then I’d have grabbed him by the scruff of his hoodie and dragged him into the bathtub.
