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I did…
I…
My trembling arms suddenly stop shaking.
And with a shriek of unbridled rage, I rip the mirror off its hinges and throw it against the wall.
But that’s not enough. I can still see myself in the glass. I can still see the bruises, the circles under my eyes, the straggled hair hanging limp around my face.
I can still see what he did to me.
I can still see what he turned me into.
So I pick the mirror back up and slam it against the wall again.
And again.
And again.
Over and over until there’s nothing left but tiny shards and fractured dust glittering on the tiled floor.
I practically punch the shower handle up and crank it to the hottest setting. I don’t care that the initial water is ice-cold; I step inside and let the heat slowly overcome the chill.
My gaze lands on a razor hanging up in a small suction cup holder on the shower wall.
I could probably pop the blades out.
I could use one to cut this stupid fucking brand from my thigh.
No.He’s taken enough from me. I won’t give him the pleasure of taking a literal pound of flesh from my body, especially since that would prove he’s forever damaged my mind. And then I’d have a constant scar to remind me of him still.
Instead, I focus on scrubbing every last trace of him off me. I empty half the bottle of body wash into the netted sponge and lather it up, scrubbing myself head to toe with the soap that smells so much like Demyen.
I hate him.
Ihaveto hate him.
But he’s not here. He’s not watching me in this shower. So for now, I allow myself to give in to my deepest, darkest pains. I sob as I scrub, and I do my damned hardest to remind myself that even in the worst of it all, a part of me kept wishing I could see Demyen one last time. I remind myself that he came to rescue me, and he got me out of there.
The water grows hotter. So do my tears.
And so does my skin, as I start scrubbing it a second… third… fourth time…
But no matter how hard I scrub, I can’t get rid of the stain.
4
DEMYEN
Walking a lap around the compound didn’t do much to ease the guilt eating away at my soul.
I don’t want him to touch her through me.
“Fuck!” I roar as I grab a bottle of vermouth from the bar and throw it against one of the stone columns in the secondary courtyard.
The shattering glass and foaming red liquid splashing everywhere does feel a little cathartic. So I grab another bottle and throw it at the same spot. I don’t know why it helps. All I know is that breaking things makes me feel some sort of relief.
After the fourth or fifth bottle, I kick a barstool over and then decide it will look better chucked into the pool. Same with another. And another.
