I tried to count them. The people since Jack. There was the girl from the punk bar with the pierced tongue. William’s childhood friend who made me promise not to tell anyone. The married man who took his wedding ring off when he fingered me. The radio host with the hair plugs. The guy who wanted me to put my finger in his ass—which I did—and then cried after he came. I was always drunk when I went home with them. I always closed my eyes when we were fucking. It was all hazy.

I felt dirty leaving their houses, like I had betrayed Jack. He used to hate when other men looked at me. I loved being his possession, thriving under his jealous control. I remembered the day he told me how calculated I was, noticing for the first time that I wore white when I was guilty, red when I wanted him to fuck me, and yellow when he was feeling morose. I revelled in the fact that someone finally knew me so well, that he had figured me out. Exposed and excited, I denied his accusations, claiming it was only coincidence.

I lit another cigarette as I walked, and the voices began their lullaby.

Pretty little princess. Pretty little doll. Isn’t she perfect? Stand up tall. Don’t touch that. Close your legs. Be a good girl. Do as I say. Don’t pout. Don’t eat that. Give us a smile. What do you have to be sad about? Put on some makeup. That’s too much makeup. Cover up. Get naked. Stop that silly crying. Don’t talk back. You’re overreacting. It didn’t happen like that. Nobody likes a dramatic girl. I’m just trying to help. It must have been deserved. Fix your hair. Don’t lie like that. Pretty little fuckdoll. Stupid little brat. Get out of bed. You’ve been in there for days. Shut the fuck up and spread your legs.

Chapter 77

It had been four months since Jack and I broke up. I had resumed my university studies and landed a job writing copy for a small advertising agency.

Pulling up outside the office, I shut off the car and attempted to move my legs, but they were tingling like they’d fallen asleep. Using my arms to lift my legs, I placed one foot outside the car at a time. As they hit the sidewalk I gasped, laboriously trying to fill my lungs with oxygen. Short, shallow breaths choked me. I shook my arms and legs, counting to a sixty, slowly. Then I counted backwards from sixty, focusing entirely on my breathing.

When I felt my head clear, I drove to Dr. Brace’s office and made my way inside. “I don’t think the drugs are working.”

“Why do you think that?” Dr. Brace asked, running his fingers along his moustache.

I glanced out the window; raindrops beaded and slid down the sill. “It’s making me feel…” I couldn’t think of the right word.

Dr. Brace’s eyebrows were raised in anticipation.