𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐘 (+𝟏𝟖)

CH. 1: CUTS AND BRUISES

M A L L O R Y

Hours, I sat there for hours loathing this pathetic, debilitated woman staring back at me in the mirror.

With each passing day, she managed to appear more miserable and enervated than she did the day before. It was even more exhausting being forced to look at her pale face and bloodshot eyes that swam in the salty seas of her own tears. It was a nuisance and I was growing sick of having to see her every night.

But nothing pissed me off more than the ugliness - how repulsively distorted she looked when she cried.

The swollen eyes, the damp cheeks, the tears that left splotchy red patches in their wake, all compelled me to reach out and shatter the glass with my fists.

Why was she crying? She was part of the problem. She let this happen when she could've left. She doesn't deserve to cry yet she had the nerve to do it anyway.

I resented her with every fibre of my being. I know I'm supposed to love her but what was worth loving?

All I wanted was to slap this bitch, hard enough that her backbone realigns in the process. But as I slowly wipe away the concealer, her bruises wave hello, regaling me with a tale of how her abusive fiancee, Tristan had exhausted that method already.

The cuts on her wrists were next to snitch, revealing that she punished herself again as no one but God bore witness. Suddenly, the fiery resentment I feel towards the weak girl dies out, leaving ashes of pity.

You deserve better.

The sound of Tristan stirring in bed draws me out of my dramatic inner monologue. My body stiffens at the sound of him moving. My eyes watch him intently in the reflection of the vanity mirror as he snores, murmuring incoherent nothings in his sleep.

He hated it when I was out of bed this late but I feel the crashing waves in my stomach settle when I remind myself that I spiked his drink earlier. He wouldn't be conscious before I was gone after tonight.

At this recollection, I allow myself to stare daggers at the unconscious form of the man who assisted in making my life hell for the past 8 months. The prick my mother was marrying me off to next month.

Why won't you just croak in your sleep?

Just stop breathing.

I've never wished death on anyone before but it was Tristan who managed to drag my darkest impulses to light. Impulses that scream at me to slit his throat in his slumber and watch him bleed dry until he was nothing more than an hollow husk of man meat.

Unfortunately, I was sane - for the most part.

My mind often conjures many scenarios in which I drag out his death for every bruise and the emotional scar he caused, but my fantasies never found their way out of the maze of my corrupted imagination.

I get chickenshit at the prospect of killing bugs and I was burdened with a conscience, which ultimately meant I couldn't kill a person if I damn well tried. Honestly, the more I thought about murder, the more needlessly expensive and time consuming it sounded.

Dark humor aside, I just wasn't a violent person. I didn't bear a single homicidal bone in my anatomy.

Suicidal bones were a much different story as I'd often seclude myself in deep thought, thinking, 'I could end it right now.' Except, I wouldn't do it.