The Forgotten Girl

Chapter 18

Lily

I know this person and Maddie knows this person too. I don’t know from where or how I know them, all I know is that I do. And I hate them with more passion then anything else in the world. This man has hurt us both, made us suffer, and created us, which makes me fill sick and vile. Loathe myself for the first time in a long time.

Maddie releases control to me quickly, just like that. Without a fight. And I know that she wants me to take care of it—act on her impulses, something she’s always been too afraid to do. So I storm down the hallway, ready to attack. The man just stands there, fully welcoming it. I know this could end badly. I could get hurt. Die. That’s not what I’m worried about—that’s the point of me existing. To take care of the things that Maddie fears the most—to step up and deal with the pain when she can’t. I’m the strong one and she’s the weak. I’m what she could never be and wishes she always was.

I lunge when I near him and he still doesn’t move back, allowing my head to ram into his gut. He smells like cigarette smoke, booze, and ash, and the three scents combined make me want to vomit. I don’t have time to brace myself as we crash to the floor and I land on top of him, my hands sliding up to his neck as I sit up, growling. I grip tightly, feeling his muscles tense beneath my touch, and his pulse throb just below my fingertips. I’m gasping for air, wild, mind racing more than it ever has before. I want this, more than anything.

At first I think he’s just going to let me kill him as he lies there in the shadows simply staring at me. But suddenly, when he’s getting to the point where he’s struggling for air, he gathers his strength and in one swift motion, flips us over so he’s lying on top of me. I bump my shoulder against the end table and a lamp falls off, crashes against my head, and glass flies, razor sharp shards that slice open my flesh, just like I want to do to his.

“Not now, my Lily,” he says, pinning me to the ground by the shoulders. I try to kick him, knee him in the gut, but he’s too heavy and the bump on the head is making my mind dance and my body go to sleep. “But soon.”

It’s the last thing I hear before he lifts his hand and presses it over my mouth, while gripping at my neck, choking and smothering me until I’m on the verge of passing out. I shut my eyes and wait to die. I’m surprised by how comfortable I am with my own death. Or just death in general. Like my warm blanket I used to carry around when I was a child. Death. I know death. It makes me content. Just as I’m about to give into the darkness and slip away forever, the hands release me. My eyes shoot open and my lips part. There’s nothing there but an empty living room and the night.

He’s gone.

Was he ever really there to begin with?