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My mouth dropped when I read that Francesca has been doing this for at least thirteen years now. How many girls has she watched be raped, tortured, and sold off to demented people? How many did she hurt herself?
My stomach rolls, and my throat thickens with disgust as I take in the words of a broken girl. She was full of life in a world that was determined to take it from her, and through each entry, I fall more in love with her. I feel her in every stroke of the pen, so I brush my trembling fingers across them and mold myself into her harsh lines.
She’s everything I want to be.
When I come to the last page, my heart breaks, and millions of questions arise. As quickly as I had found some form of comfort, I’m now left desolate and empty once more.
Tears line the edges of my lids as I tear through pages, frantic and in need of more of her words. But I find nothing but blank pages.
Did she ever make it out? Did she make it back to Layla and take her away to find a new life? A better life?
I exhaust myself with questions that I’ll never get the answers to. At least not while I’m stuck in here.
Defeated, I snap the journal shut, and manage to scrounge up enough energy to roll off the bed and crawl to the open slot. Hot tears spill over as I replace the journal back into its hiding spot. And as I seal the wooden plank back down, everything I tried to not think about rushes back to me.
Nearly falling in my rush back to the bed, I curl up in a ball, clenching my fists, my broken nails screaming. My entire body quakes from the memories slaughtering any semblance of peace I found with Molly. With everything I have, I hold on tightly to the sobs shredding my throat in an attempt to escape.
I won’t let them.
It couldn’t have been more than a half-hour since Francesca stormed out of my room, and went to calm Rocco dow
n, who, from the sound of it, went on a rampage and started destroying the house. I immediately tore off my soiled clothing, and dressed in a fresh pair, but it did nothing to soothe me while chaos ensued below my room. That’s when I remembered the journal in the floorboards and found solace in Molly.
For an indescribable amount of time, I stare at the wall. If my eyes even stray towards the dusty wooden floor, all I can see is an image of myself lying on the ground with Rocco mounted over me. I watch the desecration of my soul, like an out-of-body experience. Standing over the apparitions, unable to stop it from happening.
Desperately, I attempt to train my thoughts on anything else—Zade or Daya—but the train derails every time, leading me back towards the beauty room. They’re merely ghosts haunting the hallways of my brain, and anytime I reach out to them, they only fade away.
I squeeze my eyes shut, frustration mounting.
I should’ve listened. Yeah, that’s what I should’ve done. Allow a girl to be mutilated to save myself.
Shaking my head, I thump the heel of my palm on my forehead. How am I supposed to live with that? If I ever get out of here, how am I supposed to be okay knowing that I stood by while awful things happened to other girls, purely to save myself?
They stood by while you were raped.
They did. Do I hate them for it?
I don’t know. Kind of. There’s a morsel of inky blackness unfurling inside of me, and I kind of want to kill them, too.
“No,” I whisper. I can’t expect everyone to be so sacrificial. I can’t expect a girl who’s being abused just as I am to try and save someone else. Try to.
Because that’s the fucking problem. There is no saving them. Bethany is still going to have that mole cut out of her skin. All of those girls in there—they’re still going to be raped and tortured, no matter how many times I step in.
We're all just lambs waiting to be slaughtered, and getting myself killed isn’t going to stop the wolves from feasting.
So, what the fuck am I supposed to do?
Zade’s voice whispers in my mind, and my heart clenches painfully.
Pick your battles. Be smart.
Easier said than fucking done.
I startle when my bedroom door slams open about ten minutes later, the doorknob knocking into a perfectly round dent in the wall. There’s obviously a long history of this door being kicked in.
Breathing heavily, I watch Rio enter the room, carrying a first aid kit and appearing calm as ever despite him kicking down the door.
“Already causing trouble, princess?” he asks casually.
