Page 86 of Insidious Heart
With a painful sigh, I shuffle to the tub and start drawing a bath, not bothering to close the door before standing in front of the mirror to undress.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
Nothing does anymore.
I had next to nothing to live for before, and while I refuse to taint the memory of my mother by doing what she did, the thought is more tempting than ever because there isnothingto live for now.
Holding my breath, I drop my sweater then peel my scrub top over my head, the thin tank top and my bra following as quickly as my midsection will allow. I grab onto the counter and pull off my socks, still hanging on as I push my bottoms and panties to the floor, and when I finally meet my reflection, the crack in my chest created by the loss of Mrs. Sanderson becomes a bottomless chasm.
Bruises on my ribs, chest, and throat.
A small split in my upper lip next to a still red handprint.
My eyes are puffy, red, and still crying; my cheeks are tear-stained and blotchy, and my hair is a tangled mess from my father’s fist.
And scars.
Scars that run from the inside of my right thigh around to my hip, small patches on my side and the inside of my bicep. The ugly marbled slash that creeps up the side of my neck to my jaw, breaking briefly before it continues on my right cheek and temple.
I look like a zombie, a total shell of myself, and the longer I stare the moreworthlessI feel.
A waste of space.
My tears roll down my cheeks as I reach for the second drawer under the sink, searching for the one thing—the only thing—that will numb me outandremind me I’m still alive.
I pull the razor blade free from its hiding spot, removing the cover before holding out my right arm. My hand shakes but only a little as I move the blade to my scars before changing my mind. Instead of cutting into already ruined flesh, I turn my arm so it’s facing up, hold the edge to my forearm, and ball my hand into a fist.
On a stuttering breath that I hold, I drag the razor horizontally against my skin, watching the bright red liquid bubble along the cut in my forearm before spilling over the sides in thin streams, my blood dropping against the porcelain countertop with barely audible drips.
So, I do it again.
I cut into my arm a second time as the emotional pain subsides, as the physical pain dulls to a low thump in the back of my mind.
A third slice to my skin has everything falling away, has me closing my eyes and taking a deep breath for the first time in hours, and when I go to make a fourth cut before getting into the tub to continue on my thigh, I freeze at what I hear.
“What thefuckare you doing?”
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
VICTOR
I pullmy shirt on with a wince then frown at my bicep, the muscle burning thanks to Pope’s hack job on my arm.
After we left the scene last night, the walking blasphemy shoved me into his truck and proceeded to dig the bullet out of its nearly bone-deep location with nothing but a pocket knife and his fingers.
Whyhe insisted on doing that instead of waiting until we got to Marbles’ house to meet with the rest of the EC in one of his million pole barns I will never know, but he did, and then Pope stitched me up—rather sloppily, I might add—right there in the parking lot.
Does the club have a doctoranda medical examiner on tap thanks to Snipe and the family he married into? Yes, yes they do.
Is Marbles’ wife a nurse? Also, yes. Harlow is an RN and even if she wasn’t, they have a vet on speed dial that specializes in exotic animals from their time owning acheetah—one that kicked the bucket only a few years ago, from what I understand—andhewould have been a better option than Pope when it came to bullet removal.
Frankly, I would have settled for almost anyone other than him digging around in my arm to get the lead out, but I’m pretty sure the unholy bastard got a sick level of enjoyment from doing it himself.
At least his stitches are pretty.
Sloppy, but pretty.
I push up my sleeve and look at the angry red four inch line that will definitely leave a scar and can’t help but smile.
