Текст книги "Skin of a sinner"
Автор книги: Avina St. Graves
Жанр:
Ужасы
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
OceanofPDF.com
Skin of a Sinner by Avina St. Graves
Published by Avina St. Graves
Contact the author at avina.stgraves@gmail.com
Copyright © 2023 Avina St. Graves
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead; events; or locations is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in the work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover by Graphic Escapist
Chapter Art by Zian Schafer
Character Art by Zian Schafer
Formatting made with Atticus
Paperback ISBN 978-0-473-69304-6
eBook ISBN 978-0-473-69306-0
First Edition
OceanofPDF.com
Contents
Blurb
Author's Note
Playlist
Triggers
Roman Character Art
Isabella Character Art
Epigraph
Dedication
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also By The Author
Also By – Death's Obsession
OceanofPDF.com
Blurb
No one tells you what to do when the boy who shattered your heart comes back to steal it.
Roman Riviera was my everything once upon a time. I found my knight in shining armor in the form of a fellow foster kid. He protected me and promised to stand by my side forever.
But Roman Riviera is a liar.
He left me with monsters.
Three years later, I found him in the middle of the night, soaked in my family’s blood and carving his initials into my foster brother’s skin. He tied me up and dragged me away from the life I had made without him.
I tried to run, but he chased me. I wanted to scream, but the sound never came out.
He says that I’m never getting away from him. He says he’s back for good. I don’t believe him.
OceanofPDF.com
Author's Note
Is the love interest a problematic, obsessive, walking red flag that belongs in prison? Yes.
Would he chase you through the woods, blow your back out and tell you to take it like a good girl? Also yes.
But would he steal your panties? Watch you sleep? Mark your name into his chest? Kill for you, then treat you like a princess? I think you know the answer to that.
And you know what? Us girlies are proud to call his red flags green.
Oh, and on a very serious note, this book is a work of fiction. It does not mean I condone the characters’ actions.
Skin of a Sinner is a standalone dark romance book with flashbacks, no cliff-hangers and a guaranteed happy ending.
Happy reading x
A St. Graves
OceanofPDF.com
Playlist
Slow Down – Chase Atlantic
Reflections – The Neighborhood
King for a Day – Pierce the Veil
Bulls in the Bronx – Pierce the Veil
My Medicine – The Pretty Reckless
Make Me Wanna Die – The Pretty Reckless
De Selby (Part 2) – Hozier
Closer – Nine Inch Nails
Kicks – Barns Courtney
Yayo – Lana Del Rey
Prisoner – The Weeknd, Lana Del Rey
Fireworks – First Aid Kit
Teenagers – My Chemical romance
Mr. Brightside – The Killers
My strange addiction – Billie Eilish
Everybody Talks – Neon Trees
Lonely Boy – The Black Key
Don't Speak – No Doubt
Stolen Dance – Milky Chance
Blood In The Cut – K.Flay
The Less I Know The Better – Tame Impala
Elephant – Tame Impala
Cinnamon Girl – Lana Del Rey
Smells Like Teen Spirit – Nirvana
OceanofPDF.com
Triggers
Stalking, dubious consent, consent-not-consent, primal kink, somnophilia, light degradation, forced orgasm, blood play, breeding/ unprotected sex, kidnapping, murder, graphic violence, gore, torture, drugging, sexual assault (groping and verbal), depression, anxiety, prescription medication use, mental illness, eating disorder, (male) genital mutilation, drugs, swearing, speech impediment, poverty, child poverty, child abuse (psychological, physical, and sexual)
The opposite of triggers (for some people):
Praise, pet names, masks, some groveling, an absolutely obsessive, possessive, over the top MMC
OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
OceanofPDF.com
"I hate and I love. Why do I do this, perhaps you ask.
I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured."
– Catullus
OceanofPDF.com
Dedication
To all the self-proclaimed good girls who want to be chased through the forest, then fucked by a masked man.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 1
ISABELLA
“I’m sorry, Princess. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
It’s him.
He’s here.
He’s back.
No, no, no, this is wrong. This is all wrong.
He left me, and he didn’t say goodbye. He promised me that we would always be together, and he left. What is he doing here? Why is he here? Why—
Bile lurches up my throat as I spot the crimson splatter crawling up the wall, pooling on the wooden floor and painting his skin with the poisonous color. I’ve seen him stained with red, smelling like iron and danger, but never like this. Not with drops freckling around his steel eyes and dripping from his dark hair.
The liquid glistening from his black gloves and matting his shirt is a haunting contrast to the bloody knife in one hand and, in the other, a mask with bright red crosses through the eyes that watch my every move. Stitched lips stuck in a taunting smile dare me to make a sound.
I wish I had never come down from my room and ignored the cries of terror.
A scream catches in my throat, choking me, but I can’t look away from the mutilated fingers spread across the dining table. Or the pink concoction trailing down the side of Greg’s face, coloring the duct tape over his mouth.
Or the welts marring his body.
Long, angry red lines, two inches wide, crisscross over his arms and legs, some breaking skin. I would recognize those marks anywhere. I know how much each slash would have hurt.
This was done with a belt. Greg’s favorite belt.
The same belt that’s wrapped around his throat, turning his face a deadly shade of purple.
He did this.
Roman did this.
Greg was a piece of shit who deserved whatever was coming for him, but not this. The man who housed me for the past four years is—was—a functioning alcoholic who had no issues with tormenting his foster child, and letting his son, Marcus, play along in abusing me.
Slowly—so slowly, Roman sheaths the knife to his thigh and places the mask on the table, as if I am a frightened animal that might spook at a sudden movement.
“Go back upstairs. I’ll come to get you once I’m done.”
The deep timbre of his voice vibrates through every crevice of my being, commanding my attention. I slap a hand over my mouth to suppress a sob as I stagger back.
He’s real.
He’s actually real.
This isn’t some deranged dream. It takes everything in me not to retch. He was never meant to come back after he tore my heart from my chest and handed me to the wolves to feast on.
After twenty years, I’ve finally proven to myself that I can live without him. He’s shown me that he was nothing more than a tortured soul I grew up with because, in the end, he left.
Three years ago, to the day, he showed me that I was no one. That’s what hurts the most, because he wasn’t just anyone; he was everything to me. He was every smile that curved my lips, every laugh that rattled my chest, every dream that didn’t end in tears.
Everything meant nothing when compared to him.
But to him, I was nothing.
Roman sidesteps to block my view, but there’s no unseeing the damage he’s done to Greg… And Marcus. Oh God.
The sight of my naked foster brother, hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, is forever ingrained into my mind. Roman did that. Violets and blues blossom in violent splotches across every inch of his pale skin, so dark the red seeping from his cock blends in with the bruised flesh. Or at least, that’s where the appendage is supposed to be.
I know Marcus had one before tonight. I’ve felt it pressed against me when I didn’t want it to. I’ve endured it too many times. What does that say about me that I can’t bring myself to feel any remorse, only disgust?
I take one step back. Then another.
A sob breaks free from my lips, and then Roman’s hands are on me, keeping me there. His fingertips caress my face as he gently wipes away the tears he caused, replacing them with the blood tainting his gloves. I try to push him away, to slap his hands off me, but touching him only makes everything worse.
“No, no, shh. It’s okay. Don’t cry, alright? I’ve got you.” His voice is so much deeper now; there’s no denying the years that have passed.
Even though the sleeve of my shirt separates us, his touch sets me aflame. But I can’t look at him—the boy who hurt me more than anyone else. Hot tears burn my cheeks, pooling at the corners of my lips.
I gasp for breath as the scents of lingering bourbon, blood, sandalwood, and cinnamon engulf my senses. Even covered in blood, Roman smells better than his shirt, which I hide beside my bed.
Roman’s taller now, more foreboding, with lean muscles lining every inch of his body.
The muscles in his arms ripple when he moves. He pulls me closer, and no matter how hard I try to stop it, he’s too strong. He’s still everything to me. I hate it.
Warm lips press against my forehead, as a cry rips through my throat. The memory of the last time I felt them is ingrained into my mind, etched so deep that it isn’t just a mark; it’s who I am.
“Don’t touch me,” I plead, attempting to push him away. He doesn’t move an inch, holding me tighter, like he’s worried I’ll be the one to disappear.
If he keeps touching me, I’m afraid I’ll forget how deep the wounds he left behind are.
“You were always a heavy sleeper.” He chuckles to himself as if it’s an inside joke.
The gloved hand caresses my cheek as he presses his forehead to mine. The touch is so loving and tender, as if I might actually mean something to him. But I should know better—I have to know better. I won’t survive if he leaves again.
As I tilt my head up to look at him, his lips stretch into a sinister smirk. Glancing at Marcus and his missing appendage, Roman pulls out the knife and nudges the back of my trembling hand, saying, “Would you like the honors, Princess?”
Marcus’s cries are muffled by the tape covering his mouth. The sound breaks my trance, and when I pull away from Roman this time, he lets me.
I wish I had the strength to hurt Marcus the way Roman is, not just for vengeance for everything my foster brother put me through, but to prove to myself that I can take care of myself in every possible way.
I wipe away the tears with the back of my hand, spreading the congealing blood he left behind on my cheek. My other foster brother Jeremy is safe at camp, but what about… “Where—where’s Millie?” My foster mom stood by and watched, but she doesn’t deserve to be tortured for it. She’s a victim too.
He shakes his head, a pinch between his brows, looking at me as if he was hoping to hear something else fall from my lips. “She’s okay.”
“What does ‘okay’ mean?” I step back when he reaches for me, and the frown deepens.
I turn around. Surveying. Studying. Holding back my meager dinner that’s rising up my throat. I’ve seen him beat someone into a pulp with his bare hands. I’ve watched bones break beneath his baseball bat. But this?
He’s done it now. He’s gone too far this time.
There’s blood everywhere. Ripped flesh, torn appendages, and missing limbs. This isn’t just murder; this is the definition of a bloodbath.
“What have you done?” My voice quivers as I knock my knee against a shelf.
The room sways, and I can’t breathe. He steps in front of me, but that just makes the dizziness worse. I can’t look at him. I need to go back to pretending he doesn’t exist.
“What have you done, Roman?” I tremble, trying to stop my lungs from burning, but the match has already been lit, and there’s nothing to stop it from spreading like wildfire. “What—what is this? What are you—I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
I fall onto my knees and clamber backward, choking on air before I empty the contents of my stomach onto the floor. He grips my arms and pulls me to my feet, making me dry heave against his chest. “Deep breaths, Bella. Don’t look, alright? Just focus on me.”
He feels so warm and comforting, like I’m finally back home. But it’s all wrong. I thrash in his grip, desperate to get away. I can’t do this after all the pain he’s put me through and everything that happened. He was the only thing standing between me and the demons on the other side.
Demons like Marcus.
Roman left me to fend for myself, and I almost died because of it.
There was a time I was willing to give him every fractured piece of my heart. I thought he loved every broken part of me. He said I was perfect.
But Roman Riviera is a liar.
Every family before this one got rid of me. My mother is gone. I wasn’t enough for my father. And, God, I thought there was a chance I could be enough for him.
“No.” I gasp. “No!” Stop touching me. Nothing makes his hold on me falter, keeping me prisoner in the arms of the man who is my reminder of every part of me that I lost the day he left. “You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy.”
“I prefer the term ‘artist,’” he quips.
Is he seriously joking right now? “What is your fucking problem? Why are you here? You left, so you should stay gone.”
I was getting better. Every day, it was getting a little easier. I found hope—feeble as it was—that I would one day turn my back on this town and scrub every stain from me, once and for all.
I found a purpose in looking after Jeremy, my little foster brother. It wasn’t much, but I knew even the smallest voices could make the largest impact. Whatever came after was worth making sure Jeremy went to bed unafraid of waking up in the morning.
The muscle in Roman’s jaw feathers. “Go back to bed. I was hoping to finish up without disturbing you.”
Without disturbing me.
So what? Is he only here so that he can leave me again? Have I always been a tool for his own sick enjoyment?
Back to bed.
Without disturbing me.
The words echo over and over, building and filling until it tips over the brim.
I’m so foolish for thinking he might be back for me. That he might stay. I should have known better. He always had a thing against Marcus. He’s just tying up loose ends. Why am I not surprised?
I shove him in the chest. Hard. It’s not enough for him to let go, but it catches him off guard long enough for me to slap him. “Fuck you, Roman. I hate you.”
The excited sparkle in his eyes disappears, recoiling from my words. He knows what it means for me to say his name. “You don’t mean that—"
“Leave,” I hiss, finally looking at him and his beautifully savage features. Why won’t Roman fight me back? Why the hell won’t he react to my hits when it’s clear he doesn’t care about me?
Marcus’s muffled screams fuel my fire—every time I was silenced, every time I had to sit there and just take it, deal with it—I want to let it all out. I want this place to burn.
Fuck Marcus. I hate him, too. He can die along with his pig of a father, for all I care.
Did Roman think he could show up here after three years, torture and slaughter my foster family while I sleep upstairs, and then just leave? All over again. Through the tears, I can only make out the outline of the sharpened edge of his jaw and the dip in his cheeks. Even the shape of him is too much.
“I don’t want you here.” Lie. “You’re a monster.”
“It’s me,” he pleads, cupping my tear-stained face to pull me closer. “It’s your Mickey.”
I kick my legs out, hoping to make an impact with something—anything. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
“Bella—Bella, please. It’s me. Mickey. I’m back. I’m going to get you out of here.” His touch is all-consuming. The scent of his cologne seeps into my mind, and I want to give in so badly.
“You abandoned me!” I’ve said it enough times to myself that I sound like a broken record. Saying it out loud to the culprit feels like finding a trove of rot and dead bones that should have stayed buried.
“I know. And I’m sorry, I—"
“Sorry,” I echo. The tears stop, as I see him with complete clarity.
All the words bubbling in my chest want to pour out—all the times I’ve had to say, “thank you,” and smile at men after they hurt me. I’m so fucking sick of it. He doesn’t get to say sorry and expect everything to be forgiven.
“Sorry?” My breath comes out in short pants, and he lets go of me, knowing what’s about to happen. He always knows. “You’re sorry? Sorry? You don’t get to be sorry!” The more I say the word, the less believable it sounds. “You don’t get to come here and act like everything is alright. Do you even know what they did to me? You left me for dead, Roman. You're a coward.” I shove him, even though he’s not holding me anymore. “A fucking coward!”
He doesn’t back away as he should. He doesn’t give me the space I need, but instead continues staring at me with those steel-grey eyes that darken every time his olive skin touches mine. As he moves only slightly, our bodies are still only a hair’s breadth away.
It feels far too good to let out the anger that’s been simmering in my veins for years. Only, I’m not sorry Roman is taking the brunt of it.
My voice comes out raw as my chest heaves. “I can’t believe I trusted you and gave you all of me.” Shove. “I regret ever laying eyes on you.” Shove. “I regret speaking to you.” Shove. “I regret ever meeting you.” This time, when I shove him, he doesn’t budge. His arms encircle my waist, and he presses his cheek against my head. “I hate you, Roman. I fucking hate you. You’re the worst thing to ever happen to me. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
I repeat myself.
Over.
And over.
I don’t know how long I spend yelling, kicking, and scratching. He takes every bit of it without letting me go, not even for a second, rubbing soothing circles on my back. His tender caress continues even when my body is drained of energy and all my fight evaporates, leaving me limp in his hold as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave you. I’m back. There’s nothing that will separate us now.”
I’ve stopped hearing Marcus’s cry in the background. I don’t have the energy to care that my foster father is dead in the seat, only a few feet away from us. Or that the man who tormented me for the past three years is bleeding out.
I’m so exhausted from everything.
When will it be enough? When will I be able to truly live?
But only two words are swirling through my head: He’s back.
I want to believe him.
But Roman Riviera is a liar.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 2
ROMAN
14 Years Ago
Roman: 8 years old – Isabella: 6 years old.
I hate this part of the city as much as I hate the other.
I hate school. Doesn’t matter which school, I know I’ll hate it.
I hate Steve.
I think I hate Steve more than I hate Troy, and I’ve only known Steve for three weeks. I’ve learned he yells louder when I speak in a language he doesn’t understand. Idiot. Yelling tires him out—I think it’s because of the beer he drinks. He leaves me alone the sooner he starts yelling. Then I can run to the room I share with some boy half my size and another guy who’s older than us and thinks that makes him better.
He’s not better. I’m still teaching him this lesson.
I hate those two boys too, Josh and Perez, but since we all agree that we hate Steve more than we hate each other, we haven’t killed each other yet.
I’ll give myself another month in this place before I’m sent to another home. After being expelled from all the other schools on the city's eastern side, Margaret said they had no choice but to move me to another area where they can “accommodate” my different needs.
I’m not sure what that means, but at least I don’t hate Margaret—except when she gives me that look where her eyebrows pinch, and I know she’s about to sigh, “Again, Roman?”
She tries to make me talk about my feelings. She also likes to bring me snacks. I know it’s a bribe because I’ll do anything for a Pop-Tart.
I’m always so freaking hungry.
Even if she feeds me, all adults are stupid. She’s as useless as the rest if she can’t do anything about Steve. Or maybe she doesn’t want to.
But I heard Steve say a couple of words to describe his wife that I think works well for Margaret (sometimes): Fucking Bitch. I don’t know what it means.
Maybe I’ll ask the teacher about it.
I even told Margaret about going into Steve’s basement one night without food and not leaving the cold room until the next night.
A whole twenty-eight hours—wait. Are there twenty-eight or twenty-four hours in a day?
Ugh. It doesn’t matter because I saw her write “active imagination” after I told her last week. That was three weeks after I hit a teacher on the first week of school and ended up here… at another school. In my defense, the teacher called me a menace when I wasn’t being one.
So I showed him what a real menace looked like.
Then that stupid teacher called me an “attention seeker.” Frick him.
Anyway, I have a plan. Perez said there’s one other school in the area. If I get kicked out of this school and the other, Margaret said they won’t have a choice but to move me to another city or a group home. And then her brows will pinch, then she’ll say, “Again, Roman, really? We talked about this.”
Not like moving me would make any difference. All the schools will be crap, and all the teachers will be the same.
The vice principal of Woodside Elementary and Ms. Something are saying the same thing the last school told me. I’m only listening to snippets of it as we walk to class.
We’re here to support you, Roman.
We understand moving to another school in the middle of the year is very scary.
All the other kids are going to love you, Roman.
We want what’s best for you, Roman.
It’s what they all say. But they don’t mean it, because if they did, they wouldn’t make me live with someone like Steve.
Or Troy.
The dad at the last house was a fan of throwing things to practice his aim. He liked using us kids as moving targets. The mom of the house did her best to make up for it by making sure there was food on the table every day, even if it was just a slice of bread.
The mom at my current house sucks as much as the dad. The last time either of them remembered to feed the three of us was yesterday morning.
I am fucking hungry, to say the least.
But whatever, I’ll be gone soon enough, and who knows if the next house will be worse than Troy and Steve combined.
The school here has classrooms spread around to circle the main field. All I’m focused on is the corner, where there’s a blind spot between the fence and a building. No one would know someone is there unless they walk that way.
It’s perfect.
We enter the locker area between two classrooms, and Ms. Something takes my empty bag from me to put it on a free hook. She doesn’t wait for me before going into what I’m guessing is my temporary classroom—before I get moved, that is.
I turn my head in time to hear two boys laughing at a little girl rummaging through a bag. Her dark pigtails fall over her face as she turns away from them when one of the boys—the skinny one—says, “Hey, Isa.” The uglier one hits the skinny one’s shoulder, snickering like he can’t wait for the joke. “Say raspberry.”
They both burst into a fit of laughter, throwing their heads back as if it was the funniest thing they’ve ever said.
It’s not. How the hell is saying raspberry even funny?
The girl looks up at the two boys, bottom lip quivering and eyes glistening as she hugs herself.
Get a grip.
I roll my eyes and follow the vice principal into the classroom. Those types of bullies are boring and weak, always running their mouths, and wouldn’t know what a punch is until it hits them. Once it does, they either figure out how to throw one back and make it fun for me, or they cry and beg. Both outcomes seem good to me, especially when they end up doing both.
Other than finding out the classroom I share a building with is two grades below me, nothing eventful happens in class with my overenthusiastic teacher trying to convince everyone learning is fun.
As soon as the lunch bell rings, I grab my bag and beeline to the blind spot tucked away in the corner.
All the other students exit the rooms and head straight onto the field and playground, making this corner of paradise all mine. At this time of the day, the sun sits just right, so the place is only partly covered by shade. Splinters threaten my skin as I slide down the fence and onto the pavement. The sun sears my face, but I’d rather burn than be cold in the shadows. I’m not interested in feeling the sharp chill again.
Not after Steve put me in the basement.
My stomach sinks angrily when I open my backpack. I shouldn’t have gotten used to finding food in my bag rather than a pencil, book, and beer bottle cap. I expect nothing less from useless Steve.
Would Margaret call this an active imagination? Frick her, and frick Steve. She’d probably call the house, and Steve would tell her a heroic story about how he slaved away making my lunch, only for me to forget it. Then I’d hear that line I hate hearing everyone say about me.
Attention seeking.
They’re wrong. I don’t want their attention. There’s nothing good that can come from it.
Even the basement wouldn’t be all bad if it wasn’t so cold and quiet and I wasn’t so hungry. No one to yell at me? No one to hit me?
As I said, the less attention, the better.
It’s safe in there. But scary. And my lungs do that weird thing where they hurt, and it gets hard to breathe. I hate it.
Attention seeking.
Stupid, stupid, stupid Margaret.
Grabbing the used textbook and blunt pencil, I let my hands do all the talking while my brain continues flashing pictures I can’t keep up with. It’s so loud I wish it would shut up for two minutes.
Thick, angry strokes of graphite form shapes on the lined page. Circles and triangles, one right after the other, until a boy smiles with his razor-sharp teeth while the people around him scream.
My hand freezes as a chill falls over me—like the feeling of being watched. I snap up at the intruder with a glare, and the girl stiffens in shock. She looks just like a cartoon with her big brown eyes gawking at me… right before the familiar look I know all too well transforms it.
I’ve seen it on the cartoon mouse—I think his name is Jerry—when he sees Tom or when I come into class bruised and bloodied. Fear.
Her bottom lip trembles like it did when the two boys teased her in the locker area. She gulps as she looks between the field and me, then back at the field, like she’s trying to decide who’s the worst monster.
When she drops her head down, I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, but then she goes ahead and ruins my lunch by walking over to me.
I scowl at her. She’s clearly decided I’m less of a threat to her than Skinny and Ugly. Her worn sneakers scuff against the concrete pavement as she shuffles to a spot a few feet away from me. I stare at her, daring her to look me in the eye.
I don’t care if this was her spot before, because this is my spot now.
Until I leave, at least.
Minutes pass, and the tension radiates from her as she sits there, staring at the wall, still like a rock. So freaking still. Now, because of her, my hand doesn’t want to work. Nothing is going onto the page the way it should. The straight lines are curved, and the curved lines are straight.
I’m not feeling it, and it’s all her fault.
I’ve seen kittens less nervous than her. If I listen closely enough, I’m convinced she isn’t breathing, and the lack of sound coming from her is pissing me off.
It’s so quiet. What the hell is her problem?
“Loosen up,” I snap.
I’m not touching her, not even looking at her. She just needs to chill out.
With a squeak, she yanks her bright pink bag to her chest with shaky hands. It’s one of those nice backpacks with glitter and stuff on it. I bet she’s actually a fancy pants. Her parents probably packed her lunch. With her ridiculously wonky pigtails, I’m sure they put some stupid note in her bag, saying they love her and hope she has a good day.
She’s not like those annoying rich kids, though. None of those idiots would be caught dead wearing shoes with holes in them or a shirt that has to be at least three sizes too big.
Still, the kid in front of me doesn’t look like she’s ever known what it’s like to be locked in a basement or what it feels like to have a heated fork brand her skin. I bet she gets tucked into bed every night, like in all those books the teachers read.
Spoiled brat.
The sharp sound of a zipper opening snags my attention. I watch her small hands pause for a second before digging into her bag to grab a worn stuffed toy. It’s some character from a show I watched once—when I was at a house that had a TV.
Something about a mouse. Or a rat. Macky Mouse or something?
Whatever the thing is, it looks just like the little earrings she has on. It’s like she’s obsessed with the pest. Troy set up traps all around the house to kill them.
Her eyes dart up to me, and I look down like she isn’t there. Happy—or at least not stiff and staring at a wall—she places the toy next to her with her delicate little hands and arranges its legs to sit upright by itself.
When she pulls out her lunch box (a ripped plastic bag), I can’t keep my attention hidden anymore.
What does she have? Is she one of those kids that gets a well-balanced diet with that triangle diagram thingy? Maybe she’s one of the lucky ones who gets leftover dinner for lunch. A kid at my other school got to bring takeout for lunch, and the ass would show it off to everyone in the class.
He stopped bringing them in once I started taking them from him.
Pigtails sets the plastic bag on the ground next to the toy. I wait with bated breath as she takes out the contents.
