Her voice was soft and clear; unfamiliar. I tried to believe I was imagining it, you know? Talking to myself through her. Like the imaginary friends in those VALUE SERIES books my little sister and I loved so much.
But it was Misty talking to me. And I had a bone to pick with her.
"Oh, I see. You feel bad-ass NOW?" I asked, putting the half-full (half-empty) bottle on my floor and sitting on the mattress beside it. "What about the other night? Where was your bad ass then?" The alcohol had helped me have courage to ask and bring it up, but not enough to look right at her.
She sauntered, in a slightly winding way, in my direction and sat on the floor by the bottle.
"I wanted to scratch his eyes out," she said, braver than me, looking up at me. "I also wanted to leave the room," she admitted, looking down.
"Me, too." I said with a tight laugh.
"Look," she purred as she risked my anger and climbed onto my lap. "I was scared and uncertain of what I should do. I thought of scratching him but he's strong. He could - burp - hurt me and then you."
"My God, Misty! He was hurting me!"
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