Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I open the bedroom door and step in, closing it behind me. Inside is a large mattress set on crates with a heavy comforter. The makeshift bed is unmade. Instead of a nightstand I have a crate turned upside down but most of my shit is on the floor. A charger for my phone. A laptop. Another gun. Candles too. Sometimes the power goes out here.
The walls are bare brick, the beams exposed, and there’s a decent size bathroom attached. Instead of a dresser I have my clothes stacked on a table set against the far wall. Shoes underneath it. Two chairs, shoved against another wall beneath the huge windows, hold my books.
The furniture David had in here was very different. Top-quality custom-made shit. Just like in all the rest of his houses we had no idea he owned. Ever since the reading of his will, where he left me everything, I’ve celebrated my inheritances with a bonfire. I have one at each property I claim. First the furniture. Then, after I’ve looked through every possible place he could have hidden more information from my brother and I, the houses themselves. The two penthouses will be harder to set fire to, but I’ll figure it out.
I lay her down. She really does weigh nothing. Her head lolls to the side a little, but otherwise, she doesn’t move. God. I haven’t seen her in fifteen years, but I swear, out there, when her lip began to tremble and the dimple on her chin deepened, I glimpsed the girl she was. The little girl with the crush on her best friend’s big brother.
Cristiano used to laugh when she’d come to me for the slightest thing. When she and Lizzie fought over a toy or when she fell and hurt herself. She rarely went to her grandmother. Always came to me instead as if I were her hero.
But that was a long time ago. She doesn’t remember me. Not to mention the sight of me probably scares her half to death now. And I can’t blame her for forgetting. Some days I wish I could forget. Or at least I used to. Now, I make myself see it all again. Make myself remember. Because what happened, happened because of me and I owe it to them to remember.
I take my gun out of its holster and set it on the makeshift nightstand then think better of it and put it on the stack of books across the room. I put my dagger next to it.
I look her over, her small, bare feet pale against the dark bedding. She’s too thin, I can see it even with the dress on, her face gaunt. Even so, she’s beautiful. There’s no hiding that. And I remember how bright and blue her eyes were just moments ago. Full of life. Full of fire.
But I also remember how she crumpled after her attempt at an attack. How quickly she gave up.
With a shake of my head, I walk into the bathroom, switch on the lights, and run the tap. I scrub my hands and splash water on my face, studying myself in the mirror but only momentarily. I never look at myself longer than I need to. I pick up a washcloth and soak it with soapy water, then return to her.
I clean her face first. I can’t wash her hair until she’s awake but at least I can clean the dried blood off her cheek and lips. I take in her features, see how she’s developed. I notice her high cheekbones, wide forehead, eyebrows shades darker than her hair, lashes thick and black and impossibly long. Her lips are parted slightly, the top lip fuller than the bottom. She looks like a doll. An angel. Fucking beautiful. A sleeping angel who has woken up to a nightmare every fucking day for the last fifteen years of her life.
My mind returns to what they did to her. How they took the innocent girl and dirtied her. I swallow hard, almost choking on the lump in my throat. The green dress is stained with blood and dirt. At least the blood isn’t hers.
Suddenly I can’t stand the thought of their blood on her.
I look at her again and consider for one moment not doing it. Not cleaning her. Because when she wakes up wearing my clothes what will she think I did? Given what I saw today and what I know must have happened to her over the course of most of her life, I can’t blame her.
But I won’t allow any part of them to stain her, so I undo the few buttons on the dress. Then, not having any way to pull it off her without moving her, I grip the two sides and rip them apart with one tug. I tear away the thin straps, set the pieces of it on either side of her, and look at her.