Wicked Things by Yolanda Olson
Hollis
I stumbledto my feet after they left me in the dirty bathroom stall.
No one heard my screams for help, and if they did, they sure as fuck didn’t care.
My body shook violently as I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to cradle what self-worth I had left. One look in the mirror at my bruised, tear-stained cheeks, told me that I had none left to protect.
I raised the tips of my fingers, gently touched my tender, swollen lower lip and flinched at the feeling of pain.
That was something I should have been used to at this point in my life.
Pain was all I ever knew.
Be it physical or emotional; it didn’t matter which. I had my soul shattered years ago, and my body quickly followed.
Square your shoulders.
Straighten out your back.
No one is ever going to help a girl like you, so help yourself.
I took a deep breath as I tucked my hair behind my ears and did my best not to notice the smooth, bare spots from where they had ripped out clumps as they assaulted me.
The little pep talk I gave myself to be able to open the door of that hellacious place, to walk out into the thumping music, while the low-hanging stench of sweat and beer reminded me that I was a person too.
I had as much a right to be here as anyone else.
Even if I was a little different.
