Page 44 of It Should Have Been You

It’s no different today as I take a deep breath and force myself to walk away.

I start to wonder if things would have been different if he had just... I don’t finish the thought. There’s no point in dwelling. It won’t change things.

He was a stranger to me then even if I convinced myself otherwise.

I take one final look back before I leave and wonder the same thing I’ve wondered in my darkest moments.

I wonder what Logan King is doing.

Nine

Dear Diary,

Journal,

Day One,

This feels stupid.

I don’t know exactly why I’m doing this, but here I am. I need to document everything going forward, and everything I remember. I can’t stay here in this house, and he won’t let me leave. The only way to fight him is with evidence.

I think writing things down and taking photographs will help.

I’m not sure when all of this happened. I’m sure it began with words, but I don’t remember when. I’ll start from where I do remember, from where things started feeling wrong.

Fuck it, here it goes…

I was dressed in a black off-shoulder gown. A delicate diamond necklace glinted on my skin under the harsh light of our bathroom, but it was the bold red lipstick that was my crowning glory. I chose the shade meticulously, a fiery crimson. It was a big night. I wanted to look my best.

As I inspected my reflection, I traced my fingers over my lips, the lipstick smooth and unmarred. Stepping out of the bathroom, my gaze sought out Rob, eager to see his reaction.

He was seated on the bed, his attention glued to the documents spread out on the blanket. The sound of my heels drew his eyes, and they raked over me, taking in my attire. I waited for his praise, the compliment that would validate my efforts. But instead of the admiration I expected, a frown creased his forehead, his gaze landing heavily on my lips.

In an instant, my confidence deflated, replaced by a chill of dread. He rose from the bed, strode toward me, and before I could react, his hand was on my face. His thumb pressed into my lower lip, his hand gripping my face as he smeared the crimson shade onto my cheek.

My tears dripped onto his hand.

He didn’t notice.

“Take it off,” he ordered, his voice hard and uncompromising. “You look like a whore.”

∞∞∞

“You look pretty, Mom.”

I try to hide my reaction as I’m pulled back to reality. Instead, I focus on the cinnamon eyes of my daughter in the mirror’s reflection, and smile, because she deserves all my smiles.

“Hey, baby. Thank you.”

She walks to where I sit at the vanity unit, tossing her hair over her shoulder before grabbing the ends again to knot them around her fingers. It’s a habit she picked up when she was only a baby. I think I would mourn it if she stopped.

“I like your makeup. Can you do mine?”

When did she grow up? And why did it happen so fast? She’s still only eight, but I remember the day she was born like it was yesterday. I remember how she felt when I held her for the first time.

I wish I had never let her go because there’s a knowing glint in her eye now that I wish she didn’t have.

Plastering another forced smile on my face, I kiss her cheek before running my fingers through my freshly curled hair. “I can’t right now. Tomorrow night?”

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