Page 75 of Ruin Me Gently

She doesn’t blink.

“Please,” I sob, blood and spit trailing down my chin. “Please, help me.”

Nothing.

She’s letting it happen.

Another kick and my ribs cave like dry twigs.

She steps closer.

“You deserve this,” she whispers. “You alwaysdid.”

I gasped awake, lungs locking mid-inhale.

Move. Move. Move.

Stumbling to my feet, I made it three steps before the floor tilted beneath me. The bedroom blurred at the edges, dark corners reaching, stretching—

Not real. Not real. Not real.

I crashed into the bathroom, catching myself on the sink as my knees buckled. The first heave came fast and violent, a raw choke of bile and nothing else.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

It wasn’t working. Each inhale was like sucking air through a straw, my chest cinching tighter, ribs caged in iron.

Fighting. Failing. Twitching.

I wiped a damp hand across my forehead, fingers slipping slightly against my clammy skin as my reflection caught my eye. Wide, wild eyes, pupils blown so dark they nearly swallowed up the grey. Shadows bruised beneath my eyes, sinking deep into my cheekbones. Dark hair clung to my forehead in damp, curling strands.

Get out. Now.

I grabbed a jacket, shoving my arms into the sleeves as I flew down the stairs, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape first.

Keys. Where the fuck were my—

My hands trembled as I yanked open the drawer by the door, fingers closing around the keyring.

I shoved my boots on and bolted out the door. I needed to move.

The cold bit at my cheeks—sharp and grounding after… whatever fresh hell had just happened. My breath puffed out in front of me, small clouds vanishing into the night.

Buzz.

It was late. Too late for cars, too late for people. Just empty streets and dimly lit windows. The panic still simmered, but it wasn’t boiling over anymore. Walking helped. Fresh air helped. My thoughts were still tangled, still snagging on old memories. The nightmare clung to me, sticky and stubborn, like a second skin. Whiskey, stale cigarettes, sweat. The scent of my past had bled into my sleep again. I knew it wasn’t real. But it stillfeltreal. Every damn time. Would I ever stop waking up gasping for air, waiting for something that wasn’t coming? Would my brain ever stop replaying old footage, long after the director had called cut?

It had been over a decade since he’d laid his hands on me. But here I was, still dealing with the aftermath. Dragging around the ghosts of people who couldn’t even haunt me properly.

And for what?

Because some random guy came into the store and he had a voice that sounded a little too much like Wayne’s? Because the cadence of his words had wrapped around my throat like a noose, squeezing just tight enough to knock the air from my lungs?

It was just a voice. Just a moment. Just a stupid, fleeting thing. And yet, it had taken me out completely, left me stranded in my own body for the rest of the day, floating somewhere outside myself, unable to focus on a damn thing except forcing a fake smile for customers and trying to breathe.

I’d ignored Molly. Hell, I’d even ignored Mr. Stalker.

I hadn’t answered either of them. I couldn’t. If I opened my mouth, I knew I’d crack and melt into a puddle of disrepair onto the floor. I was a mess. A pathetic, spiralling mess.

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