Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Ridley
You know it'll be a bad day when you cut yourself while shaving your legs. I curse as the blade slides sideways, leaving a stinging sensation behind. Water pours down from the shower head, and I blink rapidly, trying to clear my eyes. Blood trickles down my leg, turning pink when it comes in contact with the steamy water. I toss my razor to the ground and turn the water off.
When I step out onto the bath mat, blood slides down my leg and drips from my heel. It stains the fluffy white mat. I stare at the spots of blood. Memories of the accident flash in my mind like a strobe light. There was so much blood. So much loss of life.
The abrupt stinging sensation brings me back to reality. Cursing again, I rush for the tissues adjacent to the sink. I grab a handful and press it to my calf, waiting out the bleeding. My hands shake as I press the tissues to the blood, watching it stain with red. Minuscule flashbacks rattle my brain, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore them. But I can't.
A torn jersey stained red.
Smoke from the engine.
The smell of gasoline and churned, moist soil.
A rock digging into my shoulder and the prominent ache radiating through my body, with me being unaware of the source.
When the tissues become soaked, I trade them out for new ones, tossing the bloody ones into the garbage can. I repeat the same cycle several times before the bleeding eases. I don't know what it is about cutting yourself with a razor, but the bleeding is ten times worse than when you slice yourself with a knife, chopping vegetables.
To be on the safe side, I grab a Band-Aid from the bottom drawer and slap it on. I slam the drawer shut, and it causes the vanity to shake. The drawers are made of old walnut, stained a darker brown with streaks of black. The counter portion is black marble and has flecks of gold that match the brass handles, faucets, and border of the mirror. I grip the edge of the bowl-like sink and glare into the mirror.
My face is flushed, save for the ghostly white scar above my left eyebrow, and my cheeks are hollow. Ever since the accident, it's been difficult to eat full meals. I'll have a snack here and there, but never consume something as simple as a plate of spaghetti. Too much food makes my stomach upset despite the fathomless, nagging hunger.
Averting my gaze, I survey the bathroom again. It's the most recently upgraded portion of the lake house. A portion that Teuvo and I worked on all summer. Together. We painted the walls black, installed the new toilet and sink, designed the new walk-in shower, and added the dark slate flooring. I close my eyes, remembering the disaster we created with the paint. It was smeared all over his body, in my hair, across the walls. And the shower that followed...
A shudder cascades down my spine, and I grab the T-shirt and athletic shorts piled on the counter. Letting the towel fall to the floor, I avoid looking in the mirror while I dress. I've seen the scars enough, and with the way today is progressing, I don't need a fucking reminder about what happened.
