Page 2 of Ruin Me Gently

Fuck. I hated it.

I let out a slow breath, tracing the ink on my body with absent fingers, following the curves of skin I’d spent years trying to make unrecognisable.

Flowers, books, intricate designs etched into my skin. They were beautiful, but I hadn’t gotten them just because I loved tattoos. I’d gotten them to cover myself. To disguise the softness beneath something deliberate. A form of destruction dressed up as self-expression.

Maybe he was right to some degree. There were definitely some parts that needed work. There had to be a new diet I could try. Or maybe I could download a tracker again—

“Nope, not tonight,” I said aloud, shaking my head as if it would physically erase the thoughts, like a neural version of an Etch-A-Sketch.

I shuffled toward the bathroom, flipping the light on with a groan. I instantly regretted it. The overhead light was blinding, highlighting every shadow under my eyes, every line of exhaustion carved into my face.

The steam rose as I turned on the shower, and I stripped off my shirt, stepping into the water. The second the hot spray hit my skin, I winced, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Clark—ow,” I say, twisting slightly to pull away from him.

He laughs, loosening his grip from my ribs. “Oh, come on. Don’t be dramatic.”

I rub the ache blooming under my shirt. “I’m not being dramatic. That hurt.”

“You’re fine,” he waves his hand. “Fuck, you’re so sensitive.”

He’d grown real fond of those words over the last few months.

‘You’re overreacting.’

‘You’re so sensitive.’

‘You’re so dramatic.’

I pressed my forehead against the cool tile, closing my eyes as the hot water pounded against my back.

We’d just been playing. Roughhousing a little. Harmless, right? Except his hand had gripped my side, fingers digging in a little too hard. Hard enough to make me yelp, hard enough to leave a bruise that was now blooming like a Rorschach test under my ribs.

I rubbed at the purple and yellow mark, wincing again as the words echoed in my mind.

Maybe Iwasbeing dramatic. Maybe if I hadn’t played back, or maybe if I…

Evelyn’s voice rang in my head. “God, you’re so dramatic, Lilith. You act like the world’s ending when you don’t get your own way.”

Then Wayne’s. “You need to stop being so sensitive all the time. Nobody likes a girl who cries at everything.”

My jaw clenched, stomach coiling tight.

Dramatic.

Sensitive.

Overreacting.

It spun and spun, faster, louder, crushing, suffocating—

My breath hitched. My fists curled. My nails bit.

My pulse pounded against my ribs, climbed up my throat.

Building and building and building.

With a sharp slap, my palm smacked against the tile wall, the crack of impact shattering through the bathroom like a gunshot.

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