2
Amelia.
I didn’t sleep. Not really. Not with the feeling of him—his mouth, his hands, the bruises left on my hips—pressed into my skin like a fever. I replayed every minute from last night, every sharp gasp and every sin, shivering under my sheets while the memory of him flooded me again and again. My thighs ached. I was sure my voice would never sound the same again.
I was worse in the morning. My father sat across from me at breakfast, pouring coffee, glancing at my empty plate. My mother prattled on about choir, about Mr. Carter, about how “blessed” we were to have him, about what a leader he was for the youth. I stared down at my hands, praying they couldn’t see the truth written all over me.
I was grateful when I could finally slip out of the house, lie about needing to practice
