Page 141 of Broken by my Bully
Fuck. Why the hell is it so bright in here?
I push away from the white sheets and white pillows, squinting as I stumble into the bathroom.
Jesus, I’m still fucking drunk.
I’mstillfucking drunk, and there’s a nineteen-year-old girl in my living room who asked if I was going to fuck her hard enough to see God last night. The same girl whose throat still bears another man’s fingerprints. The same girl I’ve been jerking off to for weeks.
The same girl I’m planning to destroy.
A much needed piss later, I splash water on my face and avoid looking at my reflection as I grab the closest towel.
It smells like Haven.
I rip away the soft, downy fabric and stare at the streaks of foundation and mascara on the stained towel. Almost absently, I swipe my hand over the granite counter’s cool, white surface.
Traces of cocaine cling to my fingers.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck,fuck!
I toss the towel to the floor and rush out of my bathroom, through my bedroom, and nearly skid on the carpet when I burst into the living area and hurriedly stop.
Haven lies sprawled on her stomach on the sofa.
One arm dangles over the side, the back of her hand resting on the floor. Her lips are parted, her eyes closed. Mascara smudged under her eyes.
Her hair is tangled, her dress creased and riding all the way up one thigh.
Only one shoe on one pretty foot.
She’s not breathing.
Jesus.
My fingertips are laced over the top of my head, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel tooth enamel squeaking.
I need to call an ambulance.
No,fuck, what am I thinking? No one can find her here.
How could I have let this happen?
Why the hell didn’t I let her sleep in her car last night? I insisted she stay with me. Insisted she drink more wine.InsistedI wouldn’t go psycho on her.
Whythe fuckdid she believe me?
My cellphone chimes urgently—my usual morning alarm. But there’s nothing routine about waking up with a dead girl in your?—
Haven snorts, drags in a ragged breath, turns her head, and starts snoring.
I bend, hands on my knees, and try to coax some air back into my lungs.
Belated memories of last night flood into my mind.
We ate together. Drank together. Listened to music together. Laughed at my musical taste, together.
Then it was late, and she could barely keep her eyes open. And I couldn’t let her sleep in her fucking back seat like she always did. Couldn’t call an Uber to take her home, because, according to DrunkHaven, home was where the heart was, and that was in her fucked up sedan parked next to my obnoxious Tesla.
