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Charlie
God how I hated him and this mess he’d gotten me into, I thought, throwing the bags of clothes to the floor and stomping on them.
I didn’t know why I thought acting out the tantrum of a five-year old would help. Maybe adults should throw child-like hissy fits more often because I did feel better — for all of thirty seconds. Then I was right back to the same old problem: how do I get my life back? How do I get out of this and away from Dante and his sick-ass brother once and for all?
No answer presented itself. I was broke, which meant my options were between nothing and absolutely nothing.
I laid across the massive bed and balled my eyes out. I hadn’t had a good cry in forever. I didn’t even cry when I left my last dickhead of a boyfriend, which left me penniless, practically homeless and scared shitless. There hadn’t been any time for tears. Tears and survival didn’t mix. I’d learned that the hard way when I got kicked out of my mother’s house at sixteen.
The only man I ever hated more than Dante at the moment was the one who’d tried to rape me at sixteen, and turned my mother against me in the process.
Men are pigs!
That was my final thought as sleep claimed me.