𝐌𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒 ❪ 𝘣𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘦 ❫

Forty-one

The next morning, I wake up, sweat clinging to my skin despite the cold air around me. I wrap the duvet around my body, attempting to keep the heat in. As soon as I move, waves of nausea hit me. I squint, trying to make out a glass of water, or any liquid, for my dry mouth is thick with saliva, craving a drink. Again, my stomach lurches, and I muster the energy to rush into the bathroom, releasing all of last night's alcohol and fries.

I splash cold water on my face, trying to satisfy my chapped lips, but instead, it seems as if the water is simply being repelled by my skin. I feel nothing on it, not a single sliver of liquid.

I can only feel the constant pounding in my head.

I groggily summon my dressing gown and put it on, grabbing my phone from inside my bag that I left on the floor amidst a scattered array of objects. I turn my phone on, instantly seeing over ten notifications from Noah. I dismiss them all, trying not to recall last night's events.

I pull the dark blue hood of my dressing gown over my head, preparing for the sight of my teammates. I check the time on my phone: 11:28 am, and I put my phone in the side pocket of my gown.

I seem to walk robotically, having to whisper commands to my limbs. I can hear the groans and creaks of each body part as each leg slowly gets back into its daily routine. Flying is always an easier option than walking, but even summoning some slippers causes chaos in my mind.

''Hello friend, Raven!'' Starfire's unmistakeably high pitched voice rings in my ear.

''Good morning Starfire,'' I answer, my throat as dry as sandpaper.

''Are you doing the okay?''

''Yeah. I'm fine.'' I reply, summoning a water bottle and filling it up with as much water as possible. I down the drink as if I haven't seen water for years, the refreshing taste only momentarily suppressing my dehydration.

''Are you of the sick?''

Wanting to get the conversation over with, I nod, walking back to my room.

''Do you need anything?'' Starfire insists.

''No,'' I answer, too exhausted to say anymore.

''Okay, friend! If you need anything I'll be with the Silkie!'' Starfire walks off to find her pet.

As soon as I am in my room, I lie back on my bed, retreating under my duvet, entering the passcode into my phone. I scroll through social media, seeing nothing new, and then go into my gallery, suddenly feeling the need to post an image. I select a picture taken a couple of weeks ago: Beastboy and I on the roof watching the sunset as two silhouettes. I recall the night as the one which Cyborg interrupted.

I add a caption: Watching sunsets. I tag Beastboy in the photo and add a location (The Roof). Finally, I hit post, watching as the blue bar jumps from one per cent to twenty-four to sixty-two until it reaches one hundred per cent.

Just as the post appears on my feed, my phone pings, alerting me of notifications from Noah for a second time. I reluctantly click on the eleven messages.

Hey Abbie. I know you don't want to hear from me right now. You may have already blocked me for god's sake. Please reply? I'll explain everything.

The first message is sent at 4:16 am. More follow, ranging from 4 am to 6:30 am.

Abbie, I'm sorry. Please answer me.

If we can meet again, I'll explain.

Please.

Abbie, I apologise for everything. Just meet up with me one more time.

I promise I'll leave you alone after that. I just want to apologise in person.

I need to tell you my side of things.

Abbie, please.

That's the last message. I linger on his words, before blocking him for good. There's no need for him to explain. I know exactly what his side of things involves. His marriage wasn't good enough, and he needed to get away, to be free, to have some fun. With someone naive enough and blind enough to not notice the ring.

And I happened to be the victim.

I sit in silence, not moving, not speaking until my body responds with some sort of answer to take my mind off my situation.

For some reason, my eyes glide over to the journal from Azar. My fingers summon a pen, subconsciously, already craving to write. To write anything.

I write to escape.

However, this journal is for another purpose.

To relive memories from my father. To remind myself of the terrible things he told me - and still does.

To elicit the feeling of helplessness, and the horrible sensation of being trapped, with nowhere to run.

At the back of my mind, that sadistic voice still remains.

The pen lands in my hand, as I walk over to the desk. I sit down on the chair, opening the book to the first page. Azar's cursive handwriting is on it. Only a few notes are written on the page: the few things I told her in New Azarath.

And so, I begin to write.

I write my story.

Just a note, I have never drunk alcohol in my life, therefore I have never consumed enough to give me a hangover, which means this description is basically a guess on what I think it feels like and is based on other descriptions in books I have read. So, keep that in mind!