Page 7 of Pray for Scars

“What?” he asks, swallowing.

“You think you were the only one to put your hands on me without my permission?” I laugh, and I don’t even recognize the sound. I take a step toward him, lean down, pick up my backpack, sling it back over my shoulder, reach around the back to the mesh compartment on the side.

“You weren’t, Jeremiah. Not too long after I left you, actually.” I smile as his eyes go wide. “Went from California to Carolina and before my 8thbirthday, a man had his hands down my pants and my fingers curled around his dick.”

I’m startled to hear those words, even though I said them. I shove those memories aside, bury them deep like I have for a long, long time.

His mouth tightens into a thin line, but I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck.

“So don’t feel too special, alright?” I pull the knife from the side of my backpack, flip the butterfly blade and step toward him. His eyes go from the knife to me, his jaw clenched. “You weren’t the only one who couldn’t help themselves.”

I turn to go.

He doesn’t follow. But when I reach the bottom steps he says, “It wasn’t like that.”

I glance over my shoulder at him, cocking my head, knife still in hand. “That’s what all the worst men say.”

Chapter Two

I don’t stop movingwhen I burst through the hotel doors, dumping my backpack in the giant trashcan around back. It’s empty anyways, my clothes in a pile on the floor of the hotel room I just left.

I’m shivering as I run through the forest that was behind the hotel, arms wrapped around myself. I’ve got my knife, but that’s it. No shoes. No hoodie. No clothes other than the silky pajama set on my body.

I can still taste Jeremiah on my tongue. Still feel him pressed against me.

His sister.

I knew he was sick. I guess I just didn’t know he was diseased, too.

The leaves crunch under my bare feet, sticks and pine needles and God knows what else driving into my skin. I wince with every step.

The highway is on the other side of the forest and I hear traffic rushing past, even this late at night. Or is it morning?

I don’t know.

When I can no longer see the lights from the hotel and the strip mall adjacent to it, I sink down to the forest floor, my back against a tree, close my eyes.

I am so fucked.

I don’t have a phone. I don’t have money. I don’t have...anything. I might cry about it if I wasn’t so damn hungry. Or still fucking drunk.

I press the heel of my hand to my eyes, breathing slowly, in and out. The wind blows and I feel a chill in my bones as I start to shiver.

Fuck me.

And then I hear it.

A crunch of leaves. Slow, deliberate steps. Two sets.

My heart sinks.

Whoever is out here in the fucking forest in the middle of the night can’t be up to any good. I would know. I’m here.

I sigh, grip the handle of my knife tighter. Here we go again.

Maybe I’ll just let them kill me. Fuck me first, too, if they want. As long as they promise to end me after.

I don’t open my eyes until the last second because to be quite honest, I just don’t fucking care.