Better When It Hurts (Stripped 2)

I think about that person across the street, peeking through their window. Are they still watching? How far would it go before they came to help? I think they’d wait forever. I think they’re just like me, doing anything to survive.

Not anymore. “Fuck you.”

Rage flashes across his face. That’s the only warning I have before his knee slams into my stomach. I double over, choking, gasping. I’m not going to survive this. My palms slide on loose gravel.

“That’s right,” he says, smug. “On the fucking ground where you belong.”

His spit lands on the back of my head.

Slowly, painfully, I stand up. I’m not steady, and I have to lean against the side of the house to do it, but I’m upright. Every part of me is trembling, afraid of death like I’ve always been. I don’t want to die here, but I will. I’ll do anything to fight this time. Blue gave me that, a cold kind of strength.

His face is a mask of fury. “I’ll grind you into the fucking ground,” he says, and I believe him. “Now get on your knees and open your fucking mouth.”

My chin lifts. “Put your dick in my mouth and I’ll bite it off.”

He comes toward me, and I brace myself for the final, killing blow. I don’t know if he even realizes how hard he’s being on me, how little I can take. I’ll be dead before he can fuck me, and I don’t think he’ll be happy about that. It doesn’t matter, though. This is the choice I made. This is the end.

A screech of a screen door rends the air.

The telltale thump of Mrs. Owens’s cane hits the porch. “Hannah?”

Chapter Sixteen

I dream of gold that night. A dragon brings me to his lair, a shiny piece of treasure to add to his pile. I dream of fire as his anger consumes me, as he singes my skin and leaves me breathless. I dream of an awful sound—it sounds like pain, and I think it might be me.

The sheets are tangled around me, holding me tight when I wake up. I’m panting, sweating, half-mired in my dream. I push damp hair from my face and try to calm down. I remember the attack. I remember Mrs. Owens coming out and stopping it. I remember going to bed, thinking it would be just fine if tomorrow never came.

Then I realize the sound wasn’t only in my dream. It’s a real sound, something I can hear from my bed in Mrs. Owens’s house, loud and screeching.

When it registers, I bolt from the bed, tripping on the twisted sheets as I cross the room.

The burning smell reaches me first, acrid and harsh.

My blood feels like a living thing, beating to get out of my chest, pounding through my veins. It only takes seconds to reach the stove and twist the knob. To grab a dish towel and move the pot of hot water to another burner. It feels like years. I’ve aged a lifetime when the screech cuts off, leaving only ringing silence in the room.

You have to scoot between the stove and the counter to even see the plug. I stare at it, the plain black cord plugged into the skeletal socket without a cover.

Did Mrs. Owens figure out to plug it in?

Or did I forget to unplug it?

I’d have already cut the damn wire and saved us both the trouble, but there’s no microwave here. A steady diet of cheap noodles, of beans and rice, means I need to be able to cook sometimes.

She’s not in the kitchen or the dining room. I find her in the living room with her tea set already laid out. She was ready for the water to boil when she must have fallen asleep.

I can’t help the anger that comes. How long I dance, how fucking hard it is to let them touch me—even accidentally. Even when they pay extra. And all of it could come crashing down, burning down because she can’t wait until I’m awake to have tea.

The anger fades away, leaving only sadness.

Why should she have to wait? She’s a grown woman, a strong woman. She was once the only person to give a damn—besides a certain boy who’s better not named. I messed things up with him, but I won’t do that with her. She deserves the loyalty I didn’t have for him.

I wake her gently. “Mrs. Owens, it’s time for bed.”

She blinks, taking in the teacup, the little pot of sugar cubes. And the afternoon light. “It’s daytime.”

“I know, but my work schedule is strange, remember? I need to sleep during the day. And you like to take a nap.”

She does need rest, but it also helps to know she’s occupied while I’m asleep.