“I’m not killing her, Marney.” I’ll kill myself first at this point.
Huffing, he leans back in the chair. “Boy, if this is how you wanna go out, I’ll be sure to say a few nice words at your funeral.”
What he doesn’t realize. Regardless of whether or not I kill her, he’s probably still going to need to say a few nice words at my funeral.
Victoria
I wipe fog from the bathroom mirror. It takes me a few minutes to muster the courage to look in the mirror, and when I do, I wish I hadn’t. Ten black stitches decorate my throat. I remember the bite of the blade, but at the time it wasn’t pain or death, it was relief. It was freedom. It was my choice. My escape from that man’s hands on my body, his rancid breath on my skin, the grating sound of his zipper lowering. I tried to kill myself to keep a man from raping me. A man Jude sent to “handle me”. And now I just feel empty and broken.
I swipe away the tears tracking down my cheek, then step into Jude’s bedroom and pause because he’s on the edge of the bed next to a department store bag—an expensive department store.
His gaze meets mine as he nudges it. “I got you some clothes.”
Clothes mean this is no longer a temporary situation, and I’m not sure whether I should be pleased that it seems my death is no longer imminent or dejected that I’m obviously not leaving anytime soon. This here is purgatory, the limbo between life and death.
Maybe he thinks buying me fancy clothes is a kindness. I’m not stupid. I see the guilt in his eyes, the way he’s hovered near me for the last couple of days with false concern. Or maybe he just thinks his collateral wants to off herself.
Part of me wants to throw that bag in his face, but I can’t find it in me to get angry anymore. So instead, I pull out a shirt and jeans, along with a set of lacey underwear.
Jude looks away when I drop my towel, like he has any sense of decency.
We both know he doesn’t.
Besides, I want him to look at the state of my body and feel guilty for it. Because he did this. He brought me here, he told his uncle to “handle me”.
I should have killed him and escaped when I had the chance. This is what that weakness cost me. Weak girls get broken.
Jude sits in silence, looking all contrite and beaten down, as I dress myself. It ignites a small spark of anger. He’s not the victim here, and I don’t want his self-serving, guilt driven sympathy. “Did you want something?” I ask.
The muscles in his sharp jawline tighten before his dark green gaze lifts to mine. “I didn’t ask to be in this situation any more than you did.”
Oh, that statement burrows beneath my skin like a parasite, and that spark flickers to life as though he just blew oxygen on it.. “Yes. Poor you, Jude.” I turn away.
The bed creaks, heavy footfalls cross the floor, then Jude’s large hand lands on my shoulder and he spins me around to face him. The anger flitting through his eyes no longer scares me. Maybe because I can see the guilt behind it, or maybe I just don’t care anymore. Survival no longer feels like the most important thing. I made that choice yesterday.
“I’m fucking sorry, Tor.”
“Sorry?” He’s sorry. He put a gun to my head then ordered someone else to defile and mutilate me. If he’s trying to destroy me, he’s doing a damn good job.
Tears stream down my face as the hurt digs in like a knife in my chest. I realize that somewhere along the line between him drying my hair, and putting me in his bed, and kissing me, somewhere, I had begun to trust him. Or atleast think he was redeemable. “You told him to do it,” I whisper, that misplaced sense of betrayal choking me.
“No…” His brows knit with a slow shake of his head. “I put a gun to his head and told him I’d blow his motherfucking brains out if he touched you.”
I want to believe him.
Jude’s hand slips from my shoulder, and his fingers lightly brush my cheek. I search his eyes for something—anything that I can hold onto. Why the hell I’m I so desperate to believe he’s not awful? Perhaps it’s because on some fucked up level, I know I want him. And need to justify that to myself. Maybe I just need some bloody hope.
Then, like a switch has flipped, his softening expression is replaced by cold indifference.
On a shake of his head, he steps away, not bothering to close the door behind him when he leaves the room.