Venomous Mistake

🐍20🐍

"Por favor, Marco. No. Lo siento. ¡No!"

I raised off the bed with a sharp gasp, breaking down because it was another dream of him holding a knife to my throat, angry and slicing it. Does he know what I did? It's only one week, but that won't stop him, right?

It's a recurring dream, and I wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night and work out to help me fall asleep. I'm now in tears because I don't know when it'll stop. I resist the urge to scream into my pillow and watch around the room, lost and uncomfortable.

Javier has a camera inside my room, watching everything I do because he doesn't trust me. He was smart, but I block that fucking thing every night, and after my morning shower, I remove the cloth over it. I won't let him see me this vulnerable, but it's a matter of time before I break.

I peel the soaked sheets off my body and climb out of bed. My knees give out, and I grasp the bedside table to keep upright. I've thought of taking medication for it, but Javier won't even let me leave the fucking house. I'd coax one of his men, but these pendejos looked at me dirty, and I'm not giving them a taste of anything for pills they could kill me with.

The clock reads eight oclock, and I sigh, staring at the thing because it's always that time that I wake up. It's like me, and that thing is in sync. I swear I'm back in that covent where we have time to get up for morning mass at five-thirty. The only difference is no one will punish me for getting up at the wrong time.

I decided to shower before having breakfast. I know Javier didn't force me here for no reason. It's yet to come, and I feel that it's today. It's Sunday—a new week has arrived. I make quick work in the shower before getting dressed—I can't wear anything blue because it reminds me too much of him. I pulled the cloth off the camera, and like every morning, I raised my middle finger for it.

I made the twin bed because I didn't deserve anything more than a small room with barely anything. It's like a motel but with a fresh breath of air. What am I saying? There's no damn fresh air in this house unless I step outside, which is yet to happen.

Someone knocks on the door, and I know it's Camilo. "Vete a la chingada." I snarled as I opened the door.

He conceals a smile, and I ignore him. He and his five-nine self can fuck off. He is short by three inches, his hair isn't long, and his beard doesn't do it for me. Mierda! I needed to stop with the distinctive characteristics. He needed to be a memory of the past. I own you. My pussy clenches at that reminder—the way he'd thrust, hitting that spot and slapping my p—

"You're not with him anymore." Camilo opened his stupid mouth.

I clenched my jaw and glared at him. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Then I'll let you walk into the wall the next time."

I'm angry with myself for letting a memory consume me. Did Camilo touch me? "Then allow me the next time. I'll have no problem hitting my head on the wall, but there's a problem when you put your hands on me. Make it your first and last if you want to keep them." He ignores me as we walk to the front door. "Where are we going?"