- 8.
Blood flowed, my body growing cold. Ethan,
frantic, scooped me up and rushed to the
hospital. “Amelia, don’t be scared. It won’t
hurt,” he choked out, his voice trembling. As
they wheeled me into surgery, I saw the panic
etched on his usually composed face. Hurt? I
was used to it. The scalding water poured down
my back in rehab had hurt. I’d sobbed, calling
Ethan, only to be met with an impatient, “I’||
talk to you later.” The crushing pain in my
fingers when they were stomped on had hurt.
I’d choked back the agony, dialing his number,
only to hear the monotonous dial tone. For
three years, I’d yearned to escape that hell, but
Ethan was never my lifeline. He only pushed me
deeper into the abyss. If it meant being sent
back to that living nightmare, I’d rather die.
