Chapter 7
Echoes of the Past
He turned, mirroring my abusers. The whispers became his voice: 'whore,' 'ugly,' 'horrible.' His hands, once gentle, now struck. I was trapped in their old nightmare.
The air in this transient space, a borrowed corner of someone else’s life, tasted like stale cigarettes and regret. He turned, and in that simple pivot, the world fractured. His eyes, once pools of adoration, now held a chilling emptiness, a reflection of every judgment I’d ever endured. The whispers, the insidious murmurs that had dogged me since I was a girl, a pretty face in a rough neighborhood, found a new, terrifying voice. They were his voice now.
“Whore.”
The word landed like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. I stumbled back, my hand flying to my mouth, as if to catch the sound before it could escape and solidify into some undeniable truth. But it was too late. It was already there, hanging in the air between us, a venomous bloom.
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