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101

"What the fuck did you do this time, Jonathan?”

A long soft and slippery upholstery touched my back when my body "or what was left under the bruises that certainly colored my skin" was rested on what I thought was a sofa. A soft and unknown aroma of incense aroused my sense of smell, and I knew I was not in a safe place. I wasn't at home.

I didn't open my eyes to confirm my suspicions. I couldn't. They were sore like never before, and my left eyeball seemed to throb below my heavy eyelids. In addition to the pain and panic, there was my hatred. Hate because if I hadn't been so weak I could have saved someone's life. It could have saved me.

I knew the damage before that unknown voice could express surprise. It was the result of the fury that Jonathan had poured on me in what I imagined to have been a few hours before we got there. I should have imagined that he wouldn't take me home that night. That the excuse of a tour would really be my end point. Because if I didn't give in to him,
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