The need to talk to someone about Miguel was making Freyja desperate. The unspoken words choked her, the repressed feelings welled up in the throat like bile. She didn’t want sympathy, she didn’t need understanding, all she needed was to tell the story, to bear witness to what had happened.
Members of her family were compromised. Would they turn away from their benefactor? More likely they would find some rationalization for maintaining the status quo. After all, Gunnar did save her life. He couldn’t be that bad.
Poppa alone would protest but the stress would put his health in further jeopardy and Freyja felt guilty enough about her lack of support.
Arni had always been her best friend, just about her only friend. They shared everything but not anymore. He shut down when she criticized Gunnar.
Why didn’t she have more friends? Mallory had called her judgmental, a prude. Maybe she should lower her standards, hang out with people that were amoral. That wouldn’t bother her so much if they were at least interesting. Freyja found most people boring, their lives filled with trivia, appropriate for Facebook but not much else. Most women her age were superficial, lacked passion and intensity. Rather than masters of their fate they were conforming automatons. Would she want to share her pain with someone like that? What would be the point?
Mallory was different. She’d also suffered at Gunnar’s hand. She would listen, but because she was Mallory, she’d be dispassionate. Mallory wouldn’t be burdened by a friend’s grief, and by not being so, Freyja could tell it freely, truthfully, and be done with it.
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