Page 31 of The Road Less Traveled By

Maybethere’s some way to tell them all this when I’m gone. Maybe I can make the breeze blow over their faces or send a ladybug to sit on their hand when they think about me.

“Shut the fuck up! You’re ruining everything!” Another slap is delivered to my cheek, and it burns as bad as the last one. I open my mouth to speak again, and I feel something cold and metal against my face.The knife.

“Do it. Get it over with, p-please.”

Click.Not a knife, then. A gun.He’s holding a gun to my head.“I’m going to take my time with you. Your parents are away, after all. You’re mine to play with, little lamb, and play we will. Don’t make me use this on you. I’d hate to blow your pretty brains out before I’ve had time to enjoy you.” I feel him press his hard-on into me, and I have to fight the urge to throw up.

“N-No.”

“Bree! Stop ruining it!” His voice cracks as he yells before I feel his fingers trail down my body.

No, no, no, no.He rips my cotton shorts off, and I feel exposed. I don't want him to see me. I don't want him to touch me. I want his hands off me. His thick fingers tease my center as he touches me.

He’s going to rape me, and then he’s going to kill me.Tears are falling from my face, and I feel like a failure. I should thrash, scream. I should dosomething, but my body is frozen as I wait for him to change my life before he kills me when he’s finished.

I feel my body start to tremble as the cold metal of the gun presses further into my face, his other hand exploring my rigid body.

It feels like forever until he stops. Something has forced him to stop.

“Did you call the cops, you fucking bitch? Did you ruin this for us?”

Cops?What cops?His sweaty hands wrap around my throat, and I can’t breathe again, but this time, it’s because of him, notme.

His hands are wrapped around my windpipe, and any minute now, I expect to hear it crack and break under the pressure. My eyes start to flutter, my lungs seizing for air that won’t come.

This is it,I think to myself. This is all the time I’ll ever have on this Earth.

I’m not ready to die. I have so many things left to say, so many years left to live.But it’s not my choice. This man holds my life beneath his hands, and I’m sure he’ll kill me before the police I don't hear seem to arrive.

He picks me up by my throat before he throws me onto my bed now in the corner of my room, and my throat starts seizing, needing air but not getting any. I stop coughing enough to hear him say something before he leaves.

“This isn't over, Bree. No matter where you end up, I’ll find you. If you can’t count on anything else, count on that. You’re mine.” He says those last words with a snarl before he rips my door open and runs out of my room.

I cough what feels like a thousand more times, wanting to crawl under my sheets and forget this entire night before I feel something touch my leg.

He’s back to finish what he started. He’s going to kill me.

“Please don't! Leave me alone!” I kick at whoever it is, finally finding the fight in me, before the sounds of my room get back to my ears.

“Honey, we’re here to help. Do you mind if we take a look at you?”

“Is he gone?” I can barely get the words out, my throat feels like it’s on fire.

“They’re searching the house now, but it seems that way. Can you stand for me?”

The lady reaches her hand out to me, and I shakily take it, but as I get up, my legs give out from underneath me, and the last thing I remember is someone calling for assistance.

Now

I wake with astartle, my hands shooting up to my throat like they always do. “Get off! No, no, no, no.” I run my hands all over myself, checking that I’m okay. My body is sweating, my lungs seizing like they normally do after a nightmare.

Even when I drift off to sleep, these invisible ghosts always seem to haunt me. I’m never going to have peace ever again.

When I’m awake, I’m looking over my shoulder, scared that Ralph is around every corner. When I’m asleep, memories of him and that night come back to haunt me, and no matter what time of day it is, it always ends in the same way.

The panic comes back and my throat closes up, both symptoms of what he did to me that night. Dr. Anna tells me it’s residual—the feeling in my throat. He strangled me enough to leave bruises for a week and even damage my vocal cords for a bit. I could barely speak after what he did.

It happened four years ago, and I can still feel his hands around my throat.

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