Page 179 of Broken by my Bully
Bastian’s probably balls deep in some beautiful, age-appropriate woman who doesn’t live in her car. Who doesn’t smell like fryer grease. Who doesn’t let her childhood friend finger-fuck her under a bed while her roommate?—
Fuck.
One tick appears. Then two. But they don’t turn blue.
I wait a while longer, two or three minutes, and then set my phone down. I guess Bastian’s had a long day too.
Professor Rooke. Bastian.
Fuck, I don’t even know what to call him anymore.
I open Melissa’s message and click on the link she sent me to pass the time. There’s a chance he might still see the message and respond.
Or I can just delete it.
Those thoughts quickly fizzle out as I stare at the social media post that opens on my phone.
It’s a photograph of a ballroom. Everyone’s wearing a tux or a sweeping, floor-length gown.
Every person in the photo was born for this shit.
Me? I’m just some Riverside piece of trash.
Will this nightmare never end?
Or maybe the nightmare is that part of me actually wants to go. Wants to walk in there and watch their faces. Show them that this trailer trash bitch can play their games too.
I stab my phone’s power button and set it down on my nightstand.
What the fuck would I even wear?
I have two dresses, and one of them just got slashed into ribbons.
My fingers drift to my ribs, finding the cut through my t-shirt.
It’s still bleeding, just a little. Tomorrow it’ll scab. Next week it’ll scar.
Another mark.
Another reminder.
But scars are just proof that you survived something that tried to kill you.
And I’m really fucking good at surviving.
Bastian
The first thing I see when my alarm shocks me awake is Evelyn’s gift-wrapped package lying beside me on the bed. My curiosity finally got the better of me last night, but I couldn’t do more than tear off a corner to reveal the thick stack of pages inside.
It’s a manuscript. Mother must have written another book. I don’t even have to open it to know what will be inside.
Ego death through psychedelic experiences. Evelyn loved her Golden Teacher tea. Shadow work, and the collective unconscious, and archetypal patterns. Or, depending on when she finished it, it could all be delusional ravings and gibberish.
Like mother, like son.
My delusions walk around campus in dirty jeans and daddy issues.
I groan, rolling onto my back, dragging my fingers down my face.
