- December 1st, 2013 -
Dear diary, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him..
She dropped the pen with an audible crash against the old, wooden desk and her good hand finds itself running through the roots of her short, brown hair. She sighs. Those were the only words she could write. They're on every page before that one.
Her mouth is dry and the last time she showered must have been a week ago. She couldn't bring herself to do it, what's the point?
The hum of that damn air conditioner is too loud. Shut up. Shut. Up. SHUT UP.
William Lewis ruined her. She thought she could get through this but she couldn't. He got closer than that fucking prison guard at Sealview. So close that it now feels like her entire life is falling to pieces. All because of him. That disgusting, lying, sick bastard.
''I hate him.'' That one came from her mouth. It was loud.
She rented a place out of the city. She didn't want to be there. For now, at least. She didn't want to see anyone, even the guys at work but this place is cold, and dark, and way too loud.
She can hear the dull bark of the dog that isn't supposed to be living in the apartment underneath her, and the constant sound of that damn baby screaming above. Someone tell them to either shut up or leave.
Her good hand moves from the roots of her hair to her temples. She just wants the pain to go away.
She can barely even cough because of how raw her throat is. From the screaming. It's the nightmares, they.. they keep her up at night and it's a screaming match between her and her mind until she takes a few pills and they knock her out. For a couple hours at least.
The drapes are mostly closed but there's a small crack between the two of them, and the winter sun pushes its way through and onto her beaten skin.
She pushes the chair out from the old desk and her hand comes down so she can lift her head up and look into the dirty mirror. The sunlight only covers half of her face.
Her cuts and bruises have healed but she's scarred. Her hair is dirty and tangled. Her lips are cracked and the black bags under her eyes are so sunken they look as though they're ready to completely cave in.
She needs to sleep but she cant. Not until she feels safe. Not until he makes her feel safe.
She cradles her bad arm and gets up. On the way over to her bed she wipes her nose with her forearm and...more crying.
It happens a lot during the day. No wonder, right? Being constantly cooped up in this shoebox apartment you'd think anyone would cry. That's not it, though. No. No.
She hates herself for not being able to keep herself safe. Now she's the victim. That's not how it's supposed to be.
The bed creaks when the weight of her body sits itself down, and her phone plus the bottle of pills are snapped from the tacky night stand.
She can barely see. The only light is that narrow beam of sun, and every time she makes direct contact with it she can see the dust particles floating around. They make her think. What she would give to be sucked away from existing as a human, and spend the rest of her time floating. Small and invisible.
Her teeth are tucked underneath the white cap of the pill bottle and she pulls. She can hear the rattle of the drugs before the cap is launched across the room and a few of the long, blue pills fall on the dirty bedsheets.
The phone is ringing before she even swallows the pills and without water it hurts a little, sticking in her chest before she finally feels them fall down.
She lets out a sigh of relief and does her best to clear that raw throat.
Finally he picks up.
''Hello?''
''Can I see you?''