Confessions Of His Ruined Muse
Language: en
Eighteen years old. That was the year the sound of my unraveling was broadcast over the intercom to the entire campus of St. Jude’s Academy. He told me I was his favorite, his muse. He coaxed my hand away from my mouth, his voice a velvet trap. "Don't be afraid, Nina. No one will know." And so, every desperate, breathless sound I made was amplified into every classroom, every hallway, every office. The next day, the bulletin boards were plastered with my love letters and photos of me on my knees before him, shirt unbuttoned, eyes wide with a devotion that looked pathetic in glossy 4x6. I…