Page 107 - My FlipBook
P. 107
T R A I L O F C R U M B S
impossibly bright through a curtainless window. Not a single
sound. Except breathing.
Greta had moved her eyes in its direction. Dylan’s loose
brown waves spread across the pillow, his head turned away
from her. Bare shoulder and arm over the blanket. She lifted
the blanket and glanced down at him. Bare back and ass.
Another wave of nausea, so strong she sucked in air through
clenched teeth. Maneuvering onto her back, she had tried to
breathe slow and steady.
Her body hurt. Her left knee throbbed when she shifted.
Some vague recollection of falling down and arms helping
her up. She was sore. There. She reached her hand between
her legs and drew her fingers to her face. Blood. She bolted
upright, tearing back the quilt on her side. Bleeding on that
bed would’ve been more humiliating than a public stoning.
Her discarded clothes lay on the sheet, pressed flat by her
body. Her wrinkled shirt had caught a few drops—the sheet
beneath still white. She exhaled. She could wear her jacket to
cover the shirt.
Dylan still slept. Some tiny relief in her rattled core.
Someone, something, had smashed her insides. Every
organ, every blood vessel, was still there, but fragmented
and in the wrong spots. If only she could’ve been home,
alone in her room, to piece it back together. She pulled
on her jeans—underwear missing—then bra and wrinkled
shirt. Her jacket hid the stain on the shoulder. She couldn’t
look at it. A second burst of relief, being covered by her own
clothes again.
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