บท 14: Chapter 14

But Coby doesn’t say anything, just presses his hand to my lower back. He’s touching the scars there, from a belt McBane used, the leather torn into strips that flayed my flesh as he rode me, whipped me like a horse—each time the belt strapped across my back, he shoved in harder, faster. I was bloody and raw when he finally came.

I hate those scars, all of them, the marks along my body that speak of the horror of sex. I don’t look at myself if I can help it—there are no mirrors here, and I try not to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the kitchen pots or the stainless steel counter tops. Each scar aches with its own pain, its own memory.

They’re all the proof I’ve ever needed to convince myself I’m better off alone, the nights I lie awake in my narrow bed and struggle against tears that I won’t let fall. I have my sister to look after, I don’t need another reason to live. I don’t need anyone else to love.