Page 77 of Twisted Addiction
Each step was a war.
My blood marked a trail behind me, crimson smears on the pavement like a signature I didn’t mean to leave.
The car came into view at last. My lifeline. My escape.
I staggered toward it, half-falling, catching myself on the hood with a gasp. My reflection stared back at me from the window: swollen eyes, split lip, a stranger’s face twisted with loss.
“Just hold on,” I muttered, unsure if I meant my body or my heart. “Just a little longer.”
I gripped the door handle, my hands slick with blood, and hauled myself inside.
The seat’s cracked leather swallowed me, and for a brief, shaking second, I let my head fall against the steering wheel.
The sound of rain against the roof became a lullaby—a cruel one, but it kept me breathing.
I had to get back to the hotel. To her. My mother would know what to do, how to quiet the chaos clawing at my chest.
She had to.
I leaned to one side, favoring my less-damaged leg, my body shaking from both the cold and the pain.
The engine coughed to life beneath my trembling hands, and the vibration seemed to echo through every fracture and bruise.
The world beyond blurred.
My vision swam, each blink heavier than the last, my head fogged by pain and exhaustion. I could barely tell where I was driving, only that I had to keep going.
Mom won’t recognize me like this, I thought, the words bitter in my mind.
A rough, broken sound escaped me—half laugh, half groan.
My reflection in the rearview mirror was unrecognizable.
My hands looked worse—raw, trembling, split open across the knuckles from the oak tree, from the glass of Penelope’s window, from the guards’ boots.
The pain was a steady thrum, but beneath it was something worse—emptiness.
I gritted my teeth and pressed harder on the accelerator, the engine’s roar drowning out the pain clawing up my leg.
The tires hissed over the slick asphalt, water spraying up from the gutters as I tore through Brooklyn’s deserted streets.
The city lights blurred into ghostly trails.
My chest tightened.
Every turn of the wheel felt like it could be my last, but stopping wasn’t an option. I had to see her. The woman who’d called herself my mother—the only person left who’d chosen to find me.
By the time I reached the hotel, I could barely feel my legs.
I pulled into the underground garage too fast, the tires screeching against the wet concrete.
My head slammed against the headrest, stars exploding behind my eyes. For a second, I just sat there, slumped forward, the world spinning in and out of focus.
Then I forced the door open.
The cold air hit me like a slap.
I stumbled out, my left leg almost giving way, and caught myself on the side mirror.
