Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) Read Online Free PDF Page B

not letting anyone in, you think that’s going to keep you from hurting? But all that’s going to do is make the pain more evident, Roxy. I mean, I don’t even really know you anymore.”
    I knew she was concerned. I knew she loved me. But I couldn’t stand the thought of losing another damn thing in my life. I made horrible decisions and I would just rather be lonely and sad; pathetic and angry than vulnerable.
    Layla tossed my shirt back at me. “You got to work?”
    “Yeah.”
    She started to turn, but stopped. “You know… Luke. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”
    My heart held back a few beats, and when it finally released the blood, an angry heat flooded my skin.
    She was my little sister, but at times she was more mature than me. She knew what moments had ruined me, and she thought she could fix them, but she couldn’t. No one could.
    I thought no one could fix me.
    “I’m not fucking stupid, Layla. I know it’s not normal, but not a damn thing in our lives has been normal. I don’t know what we’ve done, but we must have been horrible people in a past life for the hell we’ve reaped in this one. Luke is another reason I say fuck off to everyone. You can’t trust anyone.”
    “Roxy,” Layla stepped in my direction and I backed away from her. She stopped, her eyes falling to the floor. “I’m sorry. I just…I just want you to be happy.”
    “I am fucking happy. Just shit full of happy.” I yanked my shirt over my head and went into the bathroom, slamming my door behind me. “Don’t you need to go or something? You’ve got friends that you’re supposed to be doing shit with, right? Go harass them. I’ve got to get ready for work.”
    “Sorry,” she snapped. “I forget you’re a hard-up bitch. I’ll just leave you to your misery and self-pity,” she called through the door.
    Seconds later, I heard my front door slam shut.
    I let it all build up, finally giving into the tension in my chest by letting go of a loud scream.
    Bracing myself against the sink, I stared at my reflection. I jerked my shirt up and rubbed my finger over the raised scar.
    Who needs tattoos when you have eternal blemishes of what you’ve been through? My scars were my tattoos, my life’s story. Each one of the iridescent lines, circles, jagged cuts served as constant reminders of who I was, of what I’d come from, and what I’d never escape—of the reasons I refused to let anyone in.
    Sometimes when I would let me emotions get the best of me, I’d have flashbacks. One doctor called it post-traumatic stress disorder, or something like that. I don’t know why they’d call it “post” because it still hurt; as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t over, it was still every bit as traumatic as when I lived it.
    “Just get in the damn car, Roxy. Shit. I don’t need a mother. I’m perfectly fine to drive.” Luke stumbled off the curb and fell against his car.
    I stopped, curling my arms around my frame to block out the chill of the breeze. I knew I shouldn’t get in the car with him, but I also knew I didn’t have a choice.
    He used the hood to steady himself as he walked around to the driver’s side. When he reached the door he jerked it open and shouted at me. “Get in the fucking car!”
    I slowly stepped off the curb and climbed into the car. Luke started the engine, and I could feel his eyes drilling into me.
    We’d been dating for a year. He had been one of Sean’s friends, and after Sean’s death, I fell off the deep end. I had no desire to live. Life hated me; each breath I drew served as a form of punishment. A reminder that I had no one left who loved me, that I had no one to keep me safe.
    One night I lost it and did something I had always sworn I would never do. I used. I’d never done anything besides smoke a joint, and that night I smoked heroin, with Luke.
    I had become a hypocrite, a troll—but when your reality is hell, when you don’t have any dreams, perspectives change. I