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“We’ll be outside,” Jin warns.
“Sure, sure.” I rush the pack out, then throw the sliding lock.
I am not okay.
My body drags like I ran back-to-back marathons on zero sleep.
I’ve barely had a few bites of food this week.
I feel sour.
Weak.
I want to lie on cold tile until the walls stop rippling. But knowing the pack is waiting, I force myself to move.
Stripping off my puke-sprayed outer layer, I groan as I scrub clean.
Why did it have to be Bish?
I’ll never be able to look him in the eye after this.
Ugh.
After scrubbing myself raw, I ooze to grab a towel.
My dragging feet hit a puddle. Instead of pulling the towel, I fall into it, grabbing on to save my life.
The rickety towel bar pops free.
My feet fly one way while the rod escapes the other.
I smash tile hard enough to rattle my teeth, and the towel bar clatters louder than I could’ve screamed.
“Solly!” Dutch’s voice blasts.
So does his kick.
The flimsy lock doesn’t do shit when the door splinters off its hinges.
Dutch skids through the same puddle that pulped my ass, pack on his heels.
I flail for the towel, hurrying to cover my body.
It’s too late.
They see all of me.
The real Marisol.
The one with the manacle scars and the ruined throat.
No lies or scents to hide the carnage.
The me I hate the most.
Four agonizing gazes hammer my heart in flaming cannonballs.
Exposed to air, to light and shame and my worst nightmare, my throat crawls in a collar of maggots.
