are big, we were laughing at Norma who wouldn’t stop barking every time Lilly squealed because she was being pushed so high. Next to that photo is one of me at Frank’s bar, dancing with a man I used to spend time with.
They were both nice photos, if it weren’t for the words ‘dirty whore’ written over both of them. This is where I noticed a pattern. The candid shots of me meeting with work clients, or photos of Laura and I at lunch, didn’t have those two words angrily written across the top.
I note the silence in the room and glance up at Ryder, who’s now staring intently at me. It’s not pity in his eyes. It almost looks like longing.
“You’re beautiful Elle, so was your little girl.”
I nod my head slowly and try to put his focus back on what’s in front of him.
“That she was. But she’s gone and I’m not that girl anymore. Let’s keep going, I don’t like to look at this shit any longer than I have to.”
He reaches out and places his hand on top of mine.
“You’re you, babe. That’s what I like best. I don’t give a fuck what color your hair is, not then, and not now when I’ve seen who you used to be. Remember that.”
I nod my head in mild understanding, not wanting to make this any more personal than it has to be.
I continue to watch Ryder as he studies the photos intensely, taking notes on a pad he brought with him. I know when he’s getting close to the real ugly, not because I know this file like the back of my hand, but because his breathing has grown heavy.
I look down at the file and see the photo of Cory and Andrew’s bodies lying lifeless on the floor. I see that awful rope, and the filthy blood soaked blanket in the corner. My eyes drift toward the bucket I was given to piss in and I turn my head away.
No matter how long it has been, when I see it, I smell it. It’s like this awful thing that has permeated so deep in my brain that seeing that photo takes me back there.
I can feel the rope on my wrists again, the blood running down my back. I can smell the putrid scent of that goddamn bucket, stale with piss and the man that didn’t shower for three days.
I push back from the table and walk briskly toward the bathroom, not slowing at all, knowing that if my head doesn’t get to the toilet soon, I’m going to have one hell of a mess to clean up.
I make it to the bathroom and fall to my knees, I reach my hands up to try and hold my hair, but two larger hands beat me to it as I empty my stomach of the coffee and toast I consumed this morning.
I don’t want him to see me like this.
Head in the toilet.
Weak.
I don’t have a chance to object because I can’t stop heaving. Everything from today and whatever was left from last night comes up. It’s a torrent of hell that that photo brought back to me and it doesn’t stop until my stomach is completely empty.
Ryder reaches in front of me and puts a cool cloth to my forehead. I take it from him and he begins to rub my back. I’d love nothing more than to put the nightmare on my kitchen table to rest and just have this man hold me for a while so I could sleep it off. But I can’t do that. I need to push forward, no matter how much it pains me to do so.
“Maybe we should take a break, Elle,” Ryder softly says, always seeming to know what I need, even if it’s not technically what I want.
I shake my head.
“No.”
I reach out and flush the toilet, and Ryder helps me stand up. I don’t bother looking at him as I make my way to the sink and proceed to brush my teeth. He stands silently in the doorway, waiting for me.
I rinse out my mouth and wash my hands before looking at him. He’s leaned in the doorway, wearing a dark grey long sleeve shirt and worn out jeans. Dressed—or undressed—Ryder Callaghan is a beautiful sight.
“Let’s finish.”
He gives me a long hard look before nodding and
They were both nice photos, if it weren’t for the words ‘dirty whore’ written over both of them. This is where I noticed a pattern. The candid shots of me meeting with work clients, or photos of Laura and I at lunch, didn’t have those two words angrily written across the top.
I note the silence in the room and glance up at Ryder, who’s now staring intently at me. It’s not pity in his eyes. It almost looks like longing.
“You’re beautiful Elle, so was your little girl.”
I nod my head slowly and try to put his focus back on what’s in front of him.
“That she was. But she’s gone and I’m not that girl anymore. Let’s keep going, I don’t like to look at this shit any longer than I have to.”
He reaches out and places his hand on top of mine.
“You’re you, babe. That’s what I like best. I don’t give a fuck what color your hair is, not then, and not now when I’ve seen who you used to be. Remember that.”
I nod my head in mild understanding, not wanting to make this any more personal than it has to be.
I continue to watch Ryder as he studies the photos intensely, taking notes on a pad he brought with him. I know when he’s getting close to the real ugly, not because I know this file like the back of my hand, but because his breathing has grown heavy.
I look down at the file and see the photo of Cory and Andrew’s bodies lying lifeless on the floor. I see that awful rope, and the filthy blood soaked blanket in the corner. My eyes drift toward the bucket I was given to piss in and I turn my head away.
No matter how long it has been, when I see it, I smell it. It’s like this awful thing that has permeated so deep in my brain that seeing that photo takes me back there.
I can feel the rope on my wrists again, the blood running down my back. I can smell the putrid scent of that goddamn bucket, stale with piss and the man that didn’t shower for three days.
I push back from the table and walk briskly toward the bathroom, not slowing at all, knowing that if my head doesn’t get to the toilet soon, I’m going to have one hell of a mess to clean up.
I make it to the bathroom and fall to my knees, I reach my hands up to try and hold my hair, but two larger hands beat me to it as I empty my stomach of the coffee and toast I consumed this morning.
I don’t want him to see me like this.
Head in the toilet.
Weak.
I don’t have a chance to object because I can’t stop heaving. Everything from today and whatever was left from last night comes up. It’s a torrent of hell that that photo brought back to me and it doesn’t stop until my stomach is completely empty.
Ryder reaches in front of me and puts a cool cloth to my forehead. I take it from him and he begins to rub my back. I’d love nothing more than to put the nightmare on my kitchen table to rest and just have this man hold me for a while so I could sleep it off. But I can’t do that. I need to push forward, no matter how much it pains me to do so.
“Maybe we should take a break, Elle,” Ryder softly says, always seeming to know what I need, even if it’s not technically what I want.
I shake my head.
“No.”
I reach out and flush the toilet, and Ryder helps me stand up. I don’t bother looking at him as I make my way to the sink and proceed to brush my teeth. He stands silently in the doorway, waiting for me.
I rinse out my mouth and wash my hands before looking at him. He’s leaned in the doorway, wearing a dark grey long sleeve shirt and worn out jeans. Dressed—or undressed—Ryder Callaghan is a beautiful sight.
“Let’s finish.”
He gives me a long hard look before nodding and
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