Page 89 of Make Me Pretty
Peris’s legs come into my peripheral as he pushes past me. He dips down and grabs the old, yellowed Polaroid of me and Lucy. My fingers twitch to take it from him, but Ican’t.
Pathetic. Weak.
Worthless fucking—“This your mom?” Peris’s question cuts off my train of thought.
I blink rapidly through the onslaught, but it’s futile. On a snot-clogged sniffle, I nod jerkily—just once. I can’t meet Peris’s gaze. Can’t face the tangible proof of my own pitiful existence.
“You look like her.” His eyes are flicking between me and an eighteen year old photograph of my mother. I sigh, but it comes out more like a sob.
Running the back of my hand across my nose, I sniffle again. “Yeah.” My fingers pluck at my stained shoelaces, eyes drawn to Peris’s purple and black shoes. Nike. Really nice.
“Get up. Let’s go.” He shoves all my shit back in my bag, and I nearly blurt that he’s doing it all wrong, but I catch it at the last moment. Pushing myself up takes a gargantuan effort, but with Peris’s hand on my elbow, I straighten and push through the other door.
The frigid, autumn air stings my skin like a thousand needles as I follow in Peris’s footsteps. My bag swings from his hand while his duffle bag hangs from his shoulder.
By the time we reach his car, I’m shivering, and my teeth are chattering. Peris takes one look at me and sighs. “Get in, runt.”
“I-I can w-walk-k,” I stutter. Peris scoffs and yanks the passenger door open.
“Get. The fuck. In.” Without waiting for a response, he shoves me inside and slams the door behind me. He opens the back todrop our bags before walking around to the driver’s side. I reach back and pull my bag into my lap as he settles in, fingers tapping on his phone.
An intense silence builds between us as he pulls out of the empty parking lot, music thumping low from the speakers. Flicking a quick glance in his direction, I reach for the knob and turn it up.
My head bops slowly to the beat of one of Eminem’s songs. Peris doesn’t acknowledge the volume as he drives down one of many darkened streets—away from the house.
“Are we not going home?” I ask softly, tugging on the hem of my skirt. My skin is still pebbled in gooseflesh, but the car has finally started to warm up, and the rush of warm air from the vents makes me shiver.
My thumb grazes the edge of a scar.
“No.” Peris doesn’t elaborate. I frown at him, but he won’t fucking look at me.
“Why?” I press harder against it. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels different—and different is better than this.
He turns left, taking us out of town on a gravel road. Rocks spit up on either side as he increases speed. The car dips as he goes over a small hill, causing my stomach to swoop. The silence lasts long enough for the song to switch again, now an old hip-hop song.
“Peris?” I ask, nails sinking in. His fingers tap along to the beat, a clear indication his hearing is, in fact, fucking working.
Unease burns along my flesh, and I still feel so exposed. I wriggle in the seat, wincing from the sting when the movement causes a gush of cum to leak from my hole.
I flush, but thankfully, it’s dark apart from the eerie, green glow of the dash and the clock screen.
“Peris.” I try again.
“Leave it, Abel.” He takes the left turn with ease, even going forty miles an hour on a gravel turn. My hand shoots up to grab theoh shithandle as I slide into the door.
When the car straightens, I adjust my seatbelt. “Trying to kill me?”
His eyes flicker toward me for a flash before he lowers his head and mutters, “Trying to kill something.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I sit in silence, accepting the fact that Peris has, indeed, kidnapped me, and I’m his hostage.
Dramatic, sure, but it fits the bill.
My eyes catch on my bag, flayed open with my things hanging out. Most of the safety pins busted open, leaving the shredded straps to dangle uselessly. I finger a black thread, wrapping it around my finger until it cuts off blood flow, and then, I slowly unravel it before diving inside to see what’s broken.
My books were already fucked, but now “Go Ask Alice” is split into two pieces. My CDs are the same shitty, scratched discs they were. When I pull out my Discman, I hold my breath as I turn it on, only releasing it when the screen illuminates and the CD spins.
Tears burn my eyes as I shove it all back inside before pulling out the Polaroid of me and my mother. I flick the spark wheel on a lighter, watching the small flame flicker in the dark. I bring it to the corner of the photo, watching as it slowly burns. Turning brown, then black, the plastic curling away from the heat.
