"He loves me," she turns her head to the last bruise he gave her, the one over her belly, the one that killed her soul. "17," she counts, "he loves me not," she finally says. It echos in her ears. "He loves me not," she hears her voice repeat, pain etched to every syllable. Her heart aches, tears rush to the forefront, and she bites her lips to suppress the pain, failing to swallow the lump in her throat. She steps forward, the cold wind rushing by her ears, right before she hits the ground, and blissful darkness overtakes.
