Page 56 of Make Me Pretty
“Go to sleep.” Those words trail after him, cascading notes carried in the air as Peris slips out, closing the door behind him.
My ears ring in the silence—a sharp, piercing note that drags on forever in its crescendo. Gooseflesh prickles my skin as the perception of darkness begins to seep in, but I can’t do anything about it.
I’ve never gotten so high in my life, and the fear of being out of control washes over me like a tidal wave during a storm, instant and consuming. I can’t feel my breath in my lungs or the softness of the blanket against my face. But I see the light spilling beneath the crack in the door.
So, that’s where I keep my eyes as I smooth my face into the edge of a pillow. Footsteps echo, their soft thuds not loud enough, but I still strain to follow their path, thinking of where he’s at in the house.
The kitchen. The refrigerator opens, followed by the clank of a water bottle as it fills with ice. It closes. More steps but softer this time. On carpet.
My door opens, followed by soft footsteps bleeding through the shadows. I try to lift my head when Peris draws near, but I’m weighted down by something invisible.
He shoves his hand beneath my head, lifting me up slightly. “Take a drink. Your cotton mouth has to be terrible.”
I giggle as a straw meets my tingling lips. And then, water is trickling down my esophagus, and I’m groaning at the ecstasy, even as my stomach rolls with hunger. The ache burning my throat eases, and time melts into a slow crawl, heavy with a buzz I can’t follow as it pulls me under its wing.
CHAPTER 17
ABEL
This whole apartmentsmells like meth. It’s seeped into the walls, in the patchy, stained carpet.
Hell, it’s even adhering to my grimy skin.
I resist the urge to gag again as I scratch at my arm, smearing around the dirt and oils that are caked on from days of sitting in my own filth. There’s no water here—not even to drink. My throat rolls, and the contraction of muscles only makes the pain worse.
“You okay?” I rasp as I lean over to push my face into Mo’s neck. She doesn’t move at the pressure of my touch. It makes my blood run cold.
She’s so young—too young to know better.
“Mo, wake up.” I nudge her shoulder, hating the way her bones creak. “Come on,” I plead, mostly to myself, but I never raise my voice an octave above a hushed whisper. Sound bounces off the walls in this apartment, like they’re as hollow as my heart.
She finally startles awake, whipping her head around in disorientation. I hush her, running my hand down her thick, matted hair. “You’re okay. It’s just me.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks so quietly, I have to read her lips in the dim, yellow light bleeding from the kitchen. I shift around on the hard, lumpy carpet, and the inevitable jostle to my new bruises induces a fresh twinge. Mo’s eyes crinkle in a way no child’s should.
She’s too good for this.
“Nothing. Just wanted to talk,” I tell her, which is true. But I also, selfishly, don’t want to be alone.
“Are they back yet?” She blinks sleepily.
“Yes.”
Mo stiffens, clutching at me with too-small fingers. “Where are they?”
“Their room.” I hold my breath, knowing what she’s gonna ask next, hating the very words before they’re ever spoken. For even beingthought.
“Are they…” She chokes a little.
With a gentle sigh, I pull her against me, bone against bone. Harsh but oddly comforting. Just having another person to touch without the threat of malice.
“Yes.”
“So,” her throat clicks with a swallow, “they’re gonna?—”
“Yes, Mo.” I cut her off, hating that’s where our first thoughts take us. I’ve been here for two months. Mo, only three weeks.
Honestly, it’s fucking baffling how many bad people slip through the cracks in the system. It’s broken beyond repair. Too many kids, not enoughgoodpeople willing to take on the responsibility. Because we’re only ever seen as broken and unfixable. And when that little assumption is beaten into someone, it becomes fact.
