Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Again, he’s too fast for me. By the time I realize what he’s thinking, he is already taking my purse from my dresser and reaching inside to pull out my keys. “You won’t be needing these tonight.”
“Dad! Are you insane?” He ignores my question, marching from the room. Finally, my shock wears off so I can run behind him, fresh panic blooming in my chest and spreading through me. “Don’t do this!”
“Don’t go getting any ideas,” he warns, jogging down the stairs, grumbling to himself with every step he takes. “If I get back here tonight, and you aren’t here, I will have the police on your ass so fast, you won’t know what hit you. I don’t care what I have to tell them. I’ll tell them you stole my car or money if I have to. They’ll find you, and they’ll bring you back, and if you think things are bad now? Wait and see what happens.”
“You can’t do this!”
“I can do whatever I want because this is my home. You are my daughter, and I make the rules.” Pocketing my keys, he adds, “If any of the doors in this house open and close, I’ll know about it. If you so much as open the first-floor windows, I’ll get an alert once I’ve set the alarm. You’re not going anywhere.”
There’s nothing for me to do but stand and watch him leave with my keys. The lock clicks into place from outside before a faint beeping sound tells me he armed the alarm.
I’m trapped. I have no doubt if he found out I left, he would do exactly what he threatened. The town’s police force would be out looking for me, and who would they believe?
At least I still have my phone. I’m not completely cut off from the world. My hands shaking, I send Wren a text.
Me: Dad locked me in. Can’t leave tonight. I’ll think of something.
Right now, all I can think about is finding a way to blunt the pressure threatening to make me explode. I have to do something, anything, to make it go away. It’s going to kill me. He’ll come home, and I’ll be lying in pieces on the tile floor, having exploded. That might mean something if I thought he would actually care.
Instead, I go straight to his study and grab a bottle at random from the bar cart he keeps in there. Bourbon. That will do it. I have the bottle uncapped before I’m out of the room, raising it to my lips as I walk down the hall. It burns its way down my throat, but I welcome the sensation. I want it to hurt. It means I’m still capable of feeling something besides the crushing pressure.
What am I going to do? If I’m not careful, he won’t let me go to school anymore for fear of me running away. For a second, I consider a lawyer, but I don’t have money for that, and it’s not like I can prove he’s forced me into anything. They would probably dismiss it as yet another ungrateful brat wanting to turn her back on somebody who’s only ever taken care of her. He would definitely paint me that way.
Another slug of bourbon makes it easier to take another. Soon, I’m stumbling around as I gather the clothes Dad tossed across the room. I refuse to put them back in the closet, though. They return to the suitcase because I am going to leave. No matter what it takes, I’m getting out of here. Somehow.
It’s still not enough. Music blares from my laptop, filling the room with a hard, pounding beat. By the time I resort to cutting my thigh again, my vision is a little blurry, and my blood flows more freely because of everything I drank. It’s almost hypnotic, the way it flows down my inner thigh, painting my pale skin red. I watch without caring much, almost like I’m observing something happening to somebody else. I’m that far removed from reality. I’m numb still.
By now, Wren has texted me a few times in concern.
Me: I’ll be fine. We’ll figure something out.
Because she doesn’t need to know what a wreck I am.
Then, as an afterthought, I add another message.
Me: Do you have Tucker’s number?
Right away, she texts me back.
Wren: Do you think it’s a good idea to reach out to him?
The question makes me grind my teeth. I love her, but I don’t need her advice right now and don’t remember asking for it, anyway.
Me: Please, just give it to me. It takes way too long to type that short message now that the bourbon is catching up to me. Maybe I should’ve eaten something, but then, who cares? I deserve to get good and wasted after everything that’s happened today.