for the girls they loved. Music and TV would have you believe that every girl has a hero; she just needs to find him first.
It was not true.
It would never be true.
“Right.” I bit my lower lip to keep it from trembling and unbuckled my seatbelt. When I slammed the door behind me, I fought tears the entire way to the dorm. Confusion was at the forefront of my mind. He’d kissed me with passion. I knew he felt what I felt, that weird unexplainable pull. But that pull isn’t ever enough, not when you have the entire world stacked against you.
Not when your dead ex-boyfriend still mocks your every waking moment and nightmare. Not when his voice is all you hear when doubt creeps in.
“Never enough,” he whispered.
“I own you,” he taunted. “Who would want you anyway? You’re damaged, so damaged you’re lucky I even touch you.”
I shuddered as the voice got louder and louder, the laughter more menacing. “Even in my death, you’d be mine. Every time a man touches you, you’ll think of me, of what we shared…”
Tremors wracked my body, and, by the time I reached my dorm room, I was ready to puke.
I ran up the stairs and pulled out my key, only to find that my door had been broken. I pushed it open and gasped.
The word Whore was spray-painted across my wall… and on the table was a dead rose. With trembling fingers, I picked up the note next to it. Black angry block letters were scrambled across the white paper.
Now your shame will be broadcasted for all to see.
I dropped the note like it was on fire and backed into the couch, bumping my knee and nearly falling over.
“Sucks,” a voice said from the door. I looked up to see my RA standing there, arms crossed. “Sorry, Lisa. Someone called the dorm last night to say you were staying somewhere else, so we weren’t concerned for your safety. But it still sucks. You up to file a report? Campus police want to know.”
“Yeah,” I croaked. “Just let me get my bag.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I never went to college. Didn’t want her to go either. It meant she was finally thinking of a life away from me, even if she didn’t admit it. It meant it was almost time for my grand finale. Funny, in that moment, I wasn’t even pissed! I was excited, so excited to put my plan into place. The plan I’d carefully constructed since the beginning. It was going to be epic. Too bad I wouldn’t be around to see it — then again, people would eventually find out why. Find out that my death? Would be on her hands. —The Journal of Taylor B.
Tristan
T HE BLACK, ANGRY writing stared back, mocking me. My lesson plan was in English — after all, I’d written it, but nothing looked familiar. It may as well have been crisscrosses and smiley faces.
Getting Lisa out of my head wasn’t working. I hated that I’d hurt her feelings, hated myself for getting involved. What the hell had I thought would happen? I’d teach for a semester, find out what I came to find out, apologize while still gaining revenge for his death, and move on? I’d never been heartless, but during all the planning, the reading, the scheming, I’d never added her into the calculation.
I’d assumed she’d be different.
Not perfect.
Not absolutely, mind-blowingly perfect from her teasing nature to her addicting lips — damn. She could be my poison, and I’d drink from her cup, embracing sweet death if only for another taste.
Shaking, I pulled out my prescription and took the daily amount, pissed that I had to, pissed that it controlled my life — pissed that I’d let it.
I checked my phone. Father had called and, of course, her. I’d catch up with them later on in the week. Right now, it would be impossible to mask my emotion. My father would think I was off my medication, though I’d never given him any indication that I was the type to stop taking my meds. I was the good son, the perfect son. The one who crossed his Ts and dotted his Is ; the son that
It was not true.
It would never be true.
“Right.” I bit my lower lip to keep it from trembling and unbuckled my seatbelt. When I slammed the door behind me, I fought tears the entire way to the dorm. Confusion was at the forefront of my mind. He’d kissed me with passion. I knew he felt what I felt, that weird unexplainable pull. But that pull isn’t ever enough, not when you have the entire world stacked against you.
Not when your dead ex-boyfriend still mocks your every waking moment and nightmare. Not when his voice is all you hear when doubt creeps in.
“Never enough,” he whispered.
“I own you,” he taunted. “Who would want you anyway? You’re damaged, so damaged you’re lucky I even touch you.”
I shuddered as the voice got louder and louder, the laughter more menacing. “Even in my death, you’d be mine. Every time a man touches you, you’ll think of me, of what we shared…”
Tremors wracked my body, and, by the time I reached my dorm room, I was ready to puke.
I ran up the stairs and pulled out my key, only to find that my door had been broken. I pushed it open and gasped.
The word Whore was spray-painted across my wall… and on the table was a dead rose. With trembling fingers, I picked up the note next to it. Black angry block letters were scrambled across the white paper.
Now your shame will be broadcasted for all to see.
I dropped the note like it was on fire and backed into the couch, bumping my knee and nearly falling over.
“Sucks,” a voice said from the door. I looked up to see my RA standing there, arms crossed. “Sorry, Lisa. Someone called the dorm last night to say you were staying somewhere else, so we weren’t concerned for your safety. But it still sucks. You up to file a report? Campus police want to know.”
“Yeah,” I croaked. “Just let me get my bag.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I never went to college. Didn’t want her to go either. It meant she was finally thinking of a life away from me, even if she didn’t admit it. It meant it was almost time for my grand finale. Funny, in that moment, I wasn’t even pissed! I was excited, so excited to put my plan into place. The plan I’d carefully constructed since the beginning. It was going to be epic. Too bad I wouldn’t be around to see it — then again, people would eventually find out why. Find out that my death? Would be on her hands. —The Journal of Taylor B.
Tristan
T HE BLACK, ANGRY writing stared back, mocking me. My lesson plan was in English — after all, I’d written it, but nothing looked familiar. It may as well have been crisscrosses and smiley faces.
Getting Lisa out of my head wasn’t working. I hated that I’d hurt her feelings, hated myself for getting involved. What the hell had I thought would happen? I’d teach for a semester, find out what I came to find out, apologize while still gaining revenge for his death, and move on? I’d never been heartless, but during all the planning, the reading, the scheming, I’d never added her into the calculation.
I’d assumed she’d be different.
Not perfect.
Not absolutely, mind-blowingly perfect from her teasing nature to her addicting lips — damn. She could be my poison, and I’d drink from her cup, embracing sweet death if only for another taste.
Shaking, I pulled out my prescription and took the daily amount, pissed that I had to, pissed that it controlled my life — pissed that I’d let it.
I checked my phone. Father had called and, of course, her. I’d catch up with them later on in the week. Right now, it would be impossible to mask my emotion. My father would think I was off my medication, though I’d never given him any indication that I was the type to stop taking my meds. I was the good son, the perfect son. The one who crossed his Ts and dotted his Is ; the son that
Similar Books
