The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (people reading books txt) 📗

and slaps me hard across the face. I scream and stumble backwards, but he yanks me to him before I fall. He pushes me on the bed, locking the entrances before he gets on top of me. He yells in frustration. Salvia drips from his mouth and tears fall from his eyes. I do not hear what he says. My eyes are too terrified by what I see to allow my ears to listen.

“Beaux,” I choke.

He shakes me, throwing my body repeatedly into the cushions of the bed. I try to fight him off, but my arms are paralyzed in fear. I think I begin to cry. I can’t tell if the wetness on my face is of my making or his. He hits me again and again, and I scream. Blood pools in my mouth to the point I feel I may drown in it. There is a reprieve in his assault. I gasp and spit the blood on my white duvet.

My adrenaline slows, and the pain of my wounds overcomes me, but he isn’t done.

Beaux moves his hands from my shoulders to my throat. He squeezes and with more and more pressure, my mind goes numb and my insides burn. I flounder and try to push him off, but my efforts are in vain.

The room around me fades. Blurred edges inch closer and closer to his face, yet I still see him, over me, choking me. Until I see nothing at all.

With darkness my eye’s reward, my ears betray me, and I am now aware of the hell surrounding me. Beaux screams and grunts as he uses more force against me. The pain should be greater than it is, but my body shuts down with each passing second there is no fresh air in my lungs. Kat pounds on the door, crying and cursing. She yells into her cellphone for the police to hurry. I try to move my lips to tell her to run, but I’m unable to. My body is heavy, weak, and numb as it jolts back and forth under Beaux’s pressure.

In my last moment of consciousness, I feel Beaux press hard against me with all his weight. Sirens echo in the background. Hot against my neck, he whispers, “Now, we’re done.”

Chapter 3

I sit on the edge of my mattress and watch as the rising sun invades my room. It illuminates my pale walls as the light shines through the windowpane. To my left, remnants of last night’s fire crack within the confines of my fireplace. On each side, shelves lined with my favorite books glisten in the morning light, as do the dust particles floating in the air. In front of me is my mirror and dresser with travel polaroids displayed on top.

Yet, the space feels foreign after months of sleeping on the couch. I had to repaint and clean and get rid of things that reminded me of him, of that night. Still, I sit nine months later, and I still feel him in this room, watching me, touching me, hurting me.

I wrap my arms around myself and tug my comforter up higher over my chest. Despite it being new, in the right light, I sometimes think I see the remnants of splattered blood staining the white surface.

My reflection stares back at me in the mirror. She looks . . . tired, sad, maybe even older. Geez. I roll my eyes, looking to the shoes and clothes, some clean and some not, scattered across my bedroom floor. Perhaps I didn’t do enough cleaning.

When it happened, I thought it would be easier to forget all the good memories and make more room for the bad ones. I thought I could get over him quicker; and I guess you can say it worked. I have no romantic feelings for him whatsoever. But what I do have is far more damaging.

I fear him and the reality that the man I gave my heart to could hurt me the way he did. I’m scared of my judgement, because I picked him. I allowed him into my world. And I’m scared to pick another, scared he’ll be just the same. Most of all, I’m scared . . . scared this fear will never go away.

“Emma!” Kat calls.

Beep. Beep. Beep. My alarm goes off and I hit snooze without a second thought.

“Emma?”

“I’m coming. Ten minutes!”

“I’m clocking you,” Kat says from outside my room.

I groan and force myself out of bed. It’s Sunday, and on Sunday, we brunch. Bessy’s is our place, always has been since we first moved to the Marigny. It’s small, casual, and the walls are the color of sunflowers. It’s also a hub for local artists. Every third Sunday, one will come and show off their interpretation of Blue Dog. The painting is then added to the house collection, and once a year there’s a viewing for profit, all of which is donated back to the city’s Creative Concepts fund. Bessy’s is one of the only places he didn’t take from me. He never had the desire to join us.

I wash my face, brush my teeth, drench my pits in deodorant because the humidity is real, and sniff-check last night’s shorts before grabbing a white t-shirt from my to-be-folded pile. I slip on some sandals and grab a few bracelets and necklaces from atop my dresser. A little Chapstick and my fedora and I’m ready to go.

“Really?” Kat asks, hands on hips.

“What?” I ask, glancing down at my outfit.

Two weeks ago, she shaded my messy bun and leggings into oblivion. Since then, I’ve tried to feign effort. I realize she’s just worried.

“Ten minutes and you look like that,” she exhales. “You’re never allowed to be a slob again. It’s too easy for you not to,” she says. She turns on her heels and her strawberry bob bounces as she walks.

“Yeah, okay,” I say, following behind her. “Because you’re such a slouch.”

“Comparison has nothing to do with it, darling,” she says in her oh-so-Kat way. “You’re a babe. It’s time you remember it.”

“Well,