Page 42 of Piggy

Charlotte

I lost it when I visited Grayson. I mean, really lost it. But I am trying to forgive myself. It seems impossible, though.

He still talks to her. Meghan . The same woman who sent him behind bars. And yet, she gets his letters. His attention. His past.

Me? I get silence. Distance. A cold look like I don’t belong in his world anymore.

And then he says it, that Meghan can handle the truth. That she can handle him . I didn’t know what else to do. Nod. Smile. Pretend it didn’t shatter my heart... it did.

Gosh, I wish I were better at staying calm. But when I feel everything, it’s like a storm. Loud, violent, and passionate. And I always end up causing the most damage to myself.

I really am a pig. Not because I’m ugly or fat or whatever people call me. Because I root around in feelings I should bury. Because when I get upset, I wallow, I grunt, I flail. I say things I can’t unsay. I ruin everything .

And seeing him again?

It wasn’t just how damn gorgeous he looked. It was his presence. That cold, untouchable gravity. The same hands that once held me like I was breakable now curled into fists. The lips that once kissed me like I was sacred now speak only cruelty.

And our fairytale... it didn’t end with just heartbreak. It ended with him threatening to kill me.

That’s the last thing he said.

Not I love you.

Just pray I don’t get out.

But it’s late. I’m home. Tired. Need to focus.

Dinner’s simple. Mac and cheese, frozen nuggets, and half a watermelon. The kind of meal you throw together when your nerves are fried and your heart’s still somewhere behind bars.

Atticus eats on the floor, watching something on his tablet. Wilbur snorts through his food outside, little tail wagging like an excited dog.

I drag myself to the bathroom, peel off my clothes, and step into the lukewarm shower, even though I don’t want to. The water hits my skin like tiny punches. I scrub quickly, harshly. Then towel off, slip into a tank top and shorts, and flop into bed.

The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, doing nothing to cut the thick, wet Florida heat. My sheets cling to my legs. The room is quiet, peaceful, and finally, I close my eyes .

Creak .

I freeze.

My eyes snap open.

That wasn’t the fan.

Was it?

A softer creak. This time closer.

Thump.

Footsteps.

Down the hall.

My body locks up. Every muscle taut with dread.

I sit up in bed, barely breathing. The hall is a tunnel of black.

“Atticus?” My voice cracks. No answer. He should be in bed, anyway.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It’s coming closer.

Oh god. Someone is here.

My sheets twist around my legs like seaweed. I wrestle them off and stumble to my feet.

Then —

An enormous, mud-streaked snout nudges around the corner.

“Oh my God!” I gasp, slapping a hand to my chest. “Wilbur!”

He grunts like he’s laughing, his floppy ears bouncing, enormous and sweet.

I sigh in relief and march toward him, barefoot, heart still pounding .

“Out,” I whisper, guiding him down the hall. But wrangling a 280-pound pig isn’t easy. He resists with the force of a small car, hooves clicking against the hardwood like drumbeats as we both blindly waddle down the hall.

The floor gives a little under his weight as I shove against his pig butt, muttering, “Come on, big guy. Outside.”

We finally reach the patio door. It’s open. I must’ve left it that way earlier when I fed this beast.

I push Wilbur through with both hands. Once I get him back outside, I slide the glass door firmly shut, locking it.

Oh no. He left thick muddy hoof prints all over the floor. I don’t want to clean right now!

Ugh.

But I do a double-take. Because the sliding glass door’s reflection just caught my eye, and isn’t only mine.

A man in a ski mask.

Right. Behind. Me.

I’m frozen.

I whirl around, too slow. A hand slams over my mouth.

A knife presses cold and sharp against the curve of my neck.

Hot breath brushes my ear. “Not gonna happen, sweetheart. Be good. Or this gets ugly.”

Another man appears in a grotesque rubber Halloween mask with bulging eyes and stretched teeth. My vision spins.

A third steps through the hallway, a clown mask grinning with blood-dripping lips .

No.

No no no no no—

The gloved hand drops from my mouth, only for another to clamp a rag over my face.

Chemical sting, sweet and bitter.

My knees buckle. The last thing I see is Wilbur’s face through the glass, still outside, still watching, grunting and mad at the intruders.

Then—

Darkness.

My eyes flutter open, just slits, and I realize I’m moving.

Hovering.

My body swings with each of his steps. Arms dangle. Head lolls. I’m being carried like a rag doll, and the world blurs behind a smeared, glazed film.

Hot night air.

Cement underfoot. Maybe the back of my house.

The scent of leather and something sharp and chemical still clings to my face. My eyelids fight to stay open, but the chloroform claws at my brain. And ahead of us—

The van.

That van.

The same one from that horrible night. Oh, God. Riser. My stomach lurches. The ski masked man opens the back doors. I’m pulled in. No ceremony. Just dumped.

The clown mask peers down at me, chuckling. “Nice tits. ”

Another masked man climbs in after and drags me back against his chest, holding me there like I’m his favorite fucktoy.

My skin crawls.

I try to twist, but my limbs won’t cooperate. My arms feel underwater. My muscles flicker, twitchy and weak.

I shiver when—

A mouth.

On my neck.

Wet. Greedy. Dragging his teeth and sucking like he’s starved for me!

I can’t see him, but I feel everything. His tongue. His breath. His stubble.

Too familiar.

Too wrong.

Riser.

He presses closer. I feel his hard shaft against my ass. It makes me gag. I try to cry out, but my throat closes up.

“Please...” I whisper, barely audible. “No. Please don’t.”

Hot tears streak down my face, but the men only laugh. “She’s waking up,” says the clown. “Drug her again.”

“No,” I moan, louder this time, my panic rising. “No—!”

But a hand fists my hair. Another cloth smothers my mouth. The sickly-sweet, chemical smell invades me again, brutal and fast. My lungs betray me .

I kick once. Then the world bends sideways. The van spins and the hands on my body blur, some rough, one more intimate. Almost gentle — yet not.

I take one final glimpse, looking for Meghan’s wicked face, for anyone familiar, but I only see masks of my kidnappers.

The heat of a tongue drags along my shoulder as I slip away.

Darkness swallows me whole.