I would rather die first—and that wasn’t me being dramatic. I meant it. For years after that, I didn’t sleep at night. I didn’t dare. The noises—the fucking sounds from her—were burned into my memory, repeating over and over on a loop of mental destruction. And even when it was quiet, I was on edge. The silence unsettled me almost as much as her screams. Because her screams meant she was still breathing. Her silence could have meant that she was dead.
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