Page 1 of Shamed
PROLOGUE
Jennifer
The harsh, biting pain follows the path of the razor blade as it smoothly glides over the multiple ridges of scarred flesh—some fresh, some a couple of years old—causing me to hiss. It stings, it always does, but this time, the fierce burn slicing my arm feels infinitely worse, the cut a little deeper, a little harder, a littlelonger.
You deserve this.
I watch as the red drips from the gash, pooling on the old laminate floor in my dump-of-a-bathroom. I’m sure the faded rust-colored walls were once this bright.Red. I’ve alwayshatedred.
It seems fitting thathewould be wearing red that night. The thought and color make me want to hurl.
A sob rips through my chest, my body shuddering with indescribable grief. I just want the horrible pain in my chest to end, the constant dense weight of at least a dozen broken souls who sit heavily on my shoulders to be lifted.
Guilt. It’s so fucking heavy.
He’s right. Everything he said was right.
And everyone will be better off without me.
Tears trickle from my eyes, imitating the leaky tap dripping in the bathtub beside me. Besides my sniffles, it’s the only sound in the room.
The shattered mirror taunts me with a thousand images of myself sitting here.
But I’m all alone now, as I should be.
When this is all over, I can stop ruining lives.
I weakly trail a finger through the blood, gathering enough to spell out the words “I’m sorry” on the floor beside me. I hope he sees it . . . and I hope he knows how much I mean it.
God, what am I thinking? I’d never want anyone to see this. I swipe my hand over the mess.
My head hits the wall behind me with a soft thud as I stare above me. The ceiling—littered with brown water stains—appears to close in on me, joining in on the pressure crushing me.
Another whimper tries to crawl up my throat, but I swallow it back down, trying to dislodge the giant lump blocking my airway.
And then I wait.
I can almost feel the pathetic life drain out of me.
CHAPTER ONE
PART ONE
Jennifer - Seventeen Years Old
Fingers splaying over my best friend Jersey’s bed spread, I lean back, watching as she gets ready for one of the last high school parties we’ll ever attend. The air is pulsingwith anticipation and excitement while “A Thousand Years” by Christina Perri plays quietly on the speaker on her nightstand.
Only two weeks of high school left. Two weeks until freedom.
Not that I find school to be a burden by any means; it’s the place I find most joy and comfort. But the prospect of a summer filled with fun and memories to be made, as well as a few trips with my girlfriends and their families, has excitement thrumming through my veins. It dampens the usual undercurrent of loneliness and unwanted expectations laid out by my father.
I smile to myself while watching Jersey slide a brush dusted in rose pink across her cheekbones to accentuate her already high and pronounced bone structure.
I’ll be headed to college in Chicago after the summer.
Working with animals is my end goal and something I’ve wanted to do since I was little, despite never being allowed to have a pet. Or maybe it’s because of it.
Of course, my father prefers a different life for me.
