Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Then reality barrels back into the room, reminding me of what a fucked-up situation this is. I clean up quickly, splashing icy water on my face, on my hands, washing away the evidence but not out of shame. No. Just to clean up.
A bitter thought twists inside me, sharp as glass: this is why I pushed you away. I tried to save you. Tried to keep you clear of me, of this life. Doesn’t matter. Guess God had other plans.
I layer her with a couple more blankets, then I stomp out to my truck to retrieve a pair of handcuffs. I have to stop her from escaping and this should do. I cuff her right wrist to the iron headboard, the click sharp in the silence.
Insurance. Not mercy.
“You’re a weakness. My weakness,” I rasp, my voice raw with anger and disappointment. “I can’t afford to keep you, but I also can’t afford to kill you.”
On the small dining table are paper and pen. I scribble down a note for her and place it on the nightstand beside the bed, along with a bottle of water and a protein bar. She’s going to be raging mad when she wakes up, as she should be, but I’d rather face her rage than see her eyes shine with tears. After that, I build a big fire in the hearth, hoping it will last her until I can come back. At the very least, she won’t be cold through the night. Before I leave, I grab the bucket I usually use for ash and set it right next to the bed for her to use.
She won’t be able to use the toilet while she’s handcuffed.
I pause in the doorway, satisfied with myself and how I’m leaving her. She’s going to be okay. With one last look, I force myself out into the night, the cold mountain air burning like penance in my lungs.
Even as I drive away from the cabin, putting miles between us, there is no escaping the truth that clings to me like a shadow.
Saint is mine.
Completely.
In every way, shape, and form, and as fucked up as it is, there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that.
Saint
The smell of pine leaks into my dreams, leaving me confused. For one disoriented second, I wonder if I’m at the church retreat center where Dad sometimes takes the youth group on weekend trips. A sudden rush of joy fills me from the inside out at the thought.
Log cabins, forest air, and the scent of summer and s’mores around the fire. I miss those days so much. I try to sink into the memory a little more, let it wrap around me like a warm blanket, but my subconscious demands I wake up.
Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.
Panicking, I blink my eyes open, squinting against the brightness.
Did I sleep through my alarm again?
I groan internally and blink a couple more times, giving my vision a moment to adjust. I think maybe I’m seeing things because the ceiling above me is rough-hewn wood, with dark beams that crisscross overhead.
These aren’t the smooth white plaster walls of my bedroom.
A bubble of panic and confusion forms in my gut. Where am I?
Every muscle aches, like I was run over by a truck, and my mouth is drier than the cookies Mrs. Mills forces on us at church every Sunday. I need some water.
My brain is mush, my thoughts moving as slow as molasses. There’s a fog lingering in my head, thick and suffocating, making it hard for me to think, to remember, to understand what’s happening.
Where am I?
Turning, I try to get a better look at my surroundings and groan as the muscles in my neck protest. I’m still confused and unsure of where I am and how I got here. All I know is that I’m not at home or at a retreat with my father.
I lift my arms above my head to stretch, and one of them jerks to a stop mid-motion.
What the hell? I tilt my head back into the pillow and discover the source of my immobility—my right wrist is handcuffed to the metal bedframe.
This isn’t real. I try to tug my arm away, but that only makes the cuff dig into my skin. The cold steel is unyielding against my frantic pulls.
Why am I handcuffed to the bed?
Fear creeps up my throat. Relax. Calm down. I know panicking isn’t productive, but I can’t help it. I push through the fog, sorting my thoughts, searching through them like scattered puzzle pieces, trying to decipher how I got here.
The longer I think and come up with no answer, the heavier my chest feels. I try to recall anything that might give me a clue before I turn outward to my surroundings, looking for the same. My gaze drops to my chest and legs. My legs are bare, while my upper body is covered with an oversized long-sleeved T-shirt. A quilt is wrapped and twisted at my feet.