In the Absence of Light

8

Ivys POV

I like seeing the bitch squirm.

I like seeing the bitch squirm.

I like seeing the bitch squirm. That's what he said. He said it right out in the open, in public, with me just two feet away.

I like seeing the bitch squirm.

Who says something like that? Does he not realise how psychotic it sounds? It must be a Ted Bundy quote. That's the only excuse I can think of that can justify those words—he's just referring to something he said. But even if that was the case, it would be a sick thing to mention.

Ryan probably looks up to Ted Bundy. He's just as twisted and just as callous, and just like Ted Bundy, Ryan deserves to be locked up in prison.

But instead, I'm the one stuck in a cage, crying myself to sleep every night.

I dot the concealer under my eyelids, using a makeup sponge to blend the product out. It covers my bags well. They look smaller now, but they're still undeniably present. No amount of concealer can cover up months of no sleep.

I like seeing the bitch squirm.

I can't get the words out of my head. I can still hear his voice. When he said them, it was like I was thrown back in time—back into the room where the incident happened. I felt it all over again—all the things I felt that night.

It's like the walls are closing in. And every time I repeat those words in my head, I have to fight against those walls. If I let them win, I'll be taken back there once more.

And I don't want to be anywhere near that room.

I like seeing the bitch squirm.

Fuck. I can't get it out of my head.

I close my eyes to try and clear my mind, but I instantly regret it. It just makes it worse. I can't close my eyes without seeing that room again. Every time I'm in the dark, that's all I see. And when I see that room, I feel the room.

It's a vicious cycle I cannot defeat. I'm stuck in a washing machine, spinning round and round with no end in sight. I can't reach the button for the door. The only way to get out is to break the glass, but I am not strong enough, sharp enough, or stable enough to do so.

I just feel tired—so fucking tired.

For all that time I spent in bed, I don't think I got more than an hour of sleep.

We went home after the frat left. We didn't even finish our dinner. People were staring at us and I was getting restless. Erin came back to my place instead. She wanted to talk about what happened, to make sure I wasn't having a panic attack and was dealing with it in "a safe and healthy manner", is what she said. I'm not sure how someone would be able to cope with these things in such away. I definitely wasn't. I was just... acting like it hasn't happened.

But that's almost impossible when I can't stop hearing those damn words.

I like seeing the bitch squirm.

Ugh.

I can't stay here.

I get up out of my seat, abandoning my makeup on my desk. My room is set up pretty nicely, with my bed in the centre, a desk beneath the window, and a small make-up station beside it. There's a wardrobe against the back walk, but not all of my clothes fit in it. I only brought the essentials and left the rest at my parent's place. I haven't decorated my room much. My desk is pretty full with my laptop, record player, and random paperwork. There's a collage of pictures on my wall and some fairy lights over my headboard, but that's about it.