Riley Brooks appears to be leading a charmed life on the outside. On the inside, she's spiraling as a result of a toxic relationship. Once the relationship comes to a tumultuous end, she loses very nearly everything, her sanity included. As an effor...
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I was sleeping in our cool California King. Alone, of course. Legs and arms splayed wide like a starfish, the creamy sheets wrapped tightly around my shoulders. Whiskers was a patchy coil on the pillow beside me. My closest friend in my recently isolated existence. I had full on conversations with him sometimes. I knew it was weird, but at this point, I no longer stopped myself.
And it's not like he didn't respond or anything. He could speak back to me, in his own ways. In his constant following me, just steps behind.
Suddenly, Whiskers jolted awake, his amber eyes exploding into black holes. He scrambled off the bed, his back claws scraping my knuckles in the process. I stirred awake, rubbing the back of my hand and sitting up.
"Hey babe," Ryan greeted, sliding into bed behind me. He never came in on the other side of the bed. Just mine. He stunk of booze. A foreboding scent that burned the tiny hairs in my nose and makes my muscles stiffen.
I scooted forward, making room for him. "Hey,"I replied softly, so he couldn't hear any emotion in my voice.
Slowly, he melded his body into mine so there wasn't a hair's breadth of space between us. It made me think of mashing two unmatched puzzle pieces together. Just like Tommy used to do as a kid. Just to upset me.
Ryan's breath was hot and heavy in my ear. "Sorry, babe. Work was hell."
He knew that I knew that work ended almost eight hours ago, but it was just another thing unspoken. At this point, I rarely spoke at all. And when I did, it served as a defusal. Sometimes I'd say nothing at all and just start kissing him. Let him take his frustrations out on me. Sometimes it wasn't so bad that way, with me in control.
Ryan's heartbeat battered against my spine like an ominous drumbeat. A death march.
"I've missed you." The words slithered from his lips.
I swallowed and stared at the bedroom doorway, where Whiskers was watching. I could only see his head peeking in. His eyes were huge onyx stones. His tawny fur stood erect, just like the hairs on the back of my neck.
Ryan's sweaty palms slid along the length of my body until they get to the swell of my backside. Then they became grappling hooks, digging into my tender flesh. Most times, I just wanted to get it over with. This time, I was angry.
"No, I'm tired," I tried to assert, but my voice was like a mere shadow to him. Always at his side, but easy to ignore.
Since my words did nothing, I made a futile attempt of clamping my legs shut. His fingers delved into my underwear anyway. Anything Ryan wanted, he eventually got.
With an atypical ferocity, I began to whirl around to smack him, but I found that I couldn't move.
My palm—encrusted with black, oxidized blood—had been nailed down to the bed.
