By Dia Reeves
Hanna easily desires to be enjoyed. With a head laid low with hallucinations, a drugs cupboard choked with drugs, and a closet crammed with frilly, violet clothes, Hanna’s bored with being the outcast, the bizarre woman, the freak. So she runs away to Portero, Texas, looking for a brand new domestic.
But Portero is a stranger city than Hanna expects. As she attempts to make a spot for herself, she discovers darkish secrets and techniques that might terrify any basic soul. great point for Hanna, she’s faraway from basic. And whilst a loopy woman meets a fair crazier city, basically issues are sure: whatever can take place and not anyone is secure.
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Extra info for Bleeding Violet
I didn’t. My time was up. Just then, the door opened, and the two men came into the room. My heart would’ve sunk when I saw them, except my heart had already sunk so low there was nowhere left for it to go. But these two—these men—you could see it in their eyes: they were the worst kind of enemies to have. Not even evil—just obedient to evil, just dead in their hearts and minds and following blindly whatever orders they were given. Right now, their orders were “Kill him”— that meant me. One look at them, and I knew no matter what I said, they would follow those orders to the end.
I said—and he stopped. I turned back to Rat Face. “One . . ” I said. Rat Face’s frantic hands fumbled their way to the strap on my right wrist. It took him a second to steady his fingers enough to do the job. A second later, the strap came loose. Heaving the right side of my body up off the chair, I hurled Rat Face across the room. He smashed hard into the chest of drawers and collapsed to the floor. He lay there, panting, clutching his throat with one hand and his midsection with the other.
It wasn’t easy. In my terror, I found it hard to get my eyes to keep still, to train them on things and take them in. I had to force myself to do it. I looked at my left wrist first. At the chair arm it was strapped to. Nothing. The strap was strong and secure. The metal of the chair was smooth. Same with my right wrist. My hand extended over the arm of the chair. I could open and close it into a fist. But there was nothing within reach, nothing I could get hold of. What about my ankles? I had to lean forward in the chair as far as I could to get a look at the front of them, then lean over to the side to get another angle.