“What the fuck do you want from me?” I couldn’t tell him because I didn’t know. Didn’t know why it hurt so much when he missed dates or forgot to call, and why it hurt even more when he was there. But somehow, that was more bearable. There was more pain when he pulled out his hunting knife and ripped off the sleeve of my shirt. “Now you’ll remember,” he repeated as he dug the sharp point into my forearm, making the first rough line. “Now you’ll remember who saved your life. Now you’ll remember you don’t need to bother me with your questions.”
