Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
The only breaks the man has been given is when Pirro steps to the side to snort a line of coke, but he doesn’t even bother to rinse his hands before sticking the rolled-up money in his nose.
His pupils are dilated, the cuts on the man’s skin forcing blood to drip from so many areas on his body I wonder if each of his breaths will be his last. Honestly, his death seems more like a reward than a punishment at this point. I pray that it ends soon, but the power the cocaine is telling Pirro he has is only going to make it last forever.
I don’t let my head dip despite my own exhaustion. I feel a certain type of kinship with the man, wishing I could speak and tell him he isn’t alone. I wish I could beg him to give up, to give into that voice that’s telling him to walk into the light or whatever the hell someone sees when they’re on the brink of death, but it feels selfish, and maybe in part, it is. If a client comes and wants something Pirro feels I have to offer, I won’t be given time to rest before being expected to perform. I’m lucky to sleep a handful of hours each day. I don’t know why I’d expect today to be any different.
I eye the bucket of soapy water, wondering what Pirro’s response would be if I scooped some up and drank it. Not only because I’m desperate to rinse the taste of that man’s cum from my mouth but also because I’m so fucking thirsty, I’m no longer able to even pull spit into my mouth. I know how crazy the thought is. It’s not just soap in there but the man’s blood from cleaning his body. Plus, I wouldn’t put it past Pirro to contaminate it with other stuff as well.
I force down a gag, thinking of washing the man then sucking him off.
I’m sickened by everything I’ve been forced to do, but I can’t let myself focus on it. Doing so only makes me think of Alani and the sacrifices she’d make to save me. I imagine it might be the very same things I’d agree to when they were asked of me to protect her.
If Cortez could guarantee her safety in exchange for my death, I’d agree without hesitation, much the way I think Alani would do for me.
It’s been threatened that if I commit suicide, Pirro would take a trip to Lindell and make Alani take my place. I’d do anything to keep her from even suffering a second of what I’ve faced.
It’s what has me straightening my spine and forcing my eyes to stay open. I’ve learned my lesson about looking away.
Pirro takes the blade to the man’s skin, and I hate that I know exactly what it feels like.
With men, Pirro wants them to act brave until he breaks them.
With women, he wants them to act as if they like the pain. I hate when he gets a glint in his eyes, meaning he picks me. I have scars that will last a lifetime on my skin. I no longer dream of having a family, being blessed to kiss a man before falling asleep. I’ll no longer have the chance to hold a crying baby to my chest with words of comfort coming from my lips. I’ll no longer grow old, will no longer be able to watch my sister graduate from college or walk down the aisle. I’ll no longer be able to give her advice when she faces motherhood herself.
I’ve come to accept those things, but I think fighting my reality versus how I wanted my life to be is the hardest struggle. Who cares about the bruises and scars of right now when it’s giving up everything I’ve dreamed of that’s the real struggle.
I went through the same internal arguments in the months after my parents’ deaths. I couldn’t imagine facing a future without my mom and dad, but I managed. I’ve cried just as much as I did back then when I felt like I could get away with it, when the house grew quiet in the hours just after dawn.
“Fucking pussy,” Pirro spits when he realizes the man has either passed out from the extensive pain or he’s finally died.
I watch him, waiting for his intake of breath, not feeling very relieved when his chest rises.
Pirro drops the scalpel he’s been using, bored now that the man isn’t fighting against him. I hold my breath as he takes a step back.
I’ve witnessed this before, but this time seemed a little more personal. Pirro talked about betrayal and lies as he cut this man. He growled obscenities and accused him of trying to manipulate him. He didn’t go into any detail, and for that I’m glad. I don’t want to know any more about this man. I don’t want to feel sorry for him. I don’t want any fucking connection. It compromises my own health and well-being.