Metalhead by Rachel Martens

Author:Rachel Martens [Martens, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

I gave up on a good night’s sleep at 4:00am and shrouded myself in my fuzzy robe. Trying to outrun nightmares, I grabbed my copy of Outlander off the shelf and brought it with me to the kitchen to swap Dad’s coffee for Double Mocha and rouse Bess for an early brew. Outlander was wobbly in my hands, a very thick paperback with a dangerously cracked spine from rereading, but I leaned against the counter and propped it open in my hands easily enough, Bess groaning and hiccupping to life beside me.

I’d dreamt of Waylon, of him smiling and telling me he loved me and kissing me sweetly, and the moment he pulled away and my eyes opened, he turned cold and angry, shaking me and screaming at me. Othello had gone by the time I awoke and I’d lain there in bed alone, crying and feeling sick as I imagined how much pain I must have put Waylon through that he had turned on me so suddenly. Last week, we had been laughing and flirting. Last week, he’d wanted me badly enough to make out with me in the middle of the mall for all to see. And then, within days, he’d been shaking me and shouting at me, calling me horrible names, and last night telling me he’d make me pay for what I’d done.

Whatever Waylon was and wasn’t, and he certainly wasn’t a good boyfriend, I was not perfect either. I had grown distant rather than tell him something was wrong. I had made him feel insecure in our relationship, made him feel like I was pulling away and like he needed to pull me back. I had been too much of a coward to break things off on Saturday morning when we’d fought, when I had known it wasn’t going to work. And, without telling Waylon we were done, I had cheated on him with Axl, had let Axl comfort me, kiss me, touch me. Was I really so much better than Waylon? I felt like a bitch, a whore, a stupid girl, all those awful things he’d called me. And I felt like I deserved it.

My hands began to shake and I put down the book that was failing to distract me, electing to retrieve my favorite mug with the lilacs painted on it and prep it for coffee. And, my head still spinning, I started making scones of all things from scratch, because if I couldn’t make my mind busy, maybe keeping my hands busy would be enough to turn my mind off.

A pot and a half of coffee later, I forced myself to eat a scone so I wouldn’t be operating on nothing but caffeine. The scone did not promise to sit well with my stomach corroded by stress, but it was better than nothing and far more solid than coffee. As sounds of life trickled down the stairs, doors slamming, half-asleep screeches exchanged between my siblings, the shuffle of my mostly-unconscious

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