Hot anger ignites in my gut as those stupid words he uttered replay in my mind.
How hard this has been.
That's what he said.
Like he's the one who suffered. As if he's the one who was taken and drugged and sold.
Where was he? Where the fuck was he?
I waited and waited, thinking he would come, thinking he would find me.
But he didn't. No, he let me rot.
He let me disappear, and he didn't come for me until now.
Eighteen fucking months later.
The anger cracks, and something darker rushes in to fill the space.
It's raw and devastating, and before I know it, a sob tears out of me, loud and broken. My hand covers my mouth, trying to muffle the sound as I cry.
The tears come fast, streaking down my face, and I can't stop them.
My shoulders shake as I sob into my palm.
I don't want him to hear me. I don't want anyone to hear me.
The cries shake my body, and my chest aches, and I feel like I'm breaking apart from the inside out.
Why didn't he come sooner?
Why didn't he find me before Maxim did all of those things? I was alone and scared and broken.
God, it's all too late. The memories are there, and I can't unsee them.
I sob harder, my entire body trembling, and I hate myself for crying, hate myself for being weak, hate myself for not fighting harder, for not escaping sooner, for not…
A darker thought creeps in, quiet and insidious.
You should have ended it.
You should have jumped from that balcony.
I gasp and shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut.
No.
No, I can't think like that.
But the thoughts don't stop. They never stop.
They're always there, lurking at the edges of my mind, tempting me.
Only the pills silence them, and now they're gone, and the whispers are getting louder.
I scramble off the bed and stumble toward the bathroom.
Maybe I can splash water on my face to calm down.