Love is Hell [antikvár]

On^e WAKE UP IN a cold sweat—a sharp, biting sen-(Q/ sation stretches down the length of my spine and makes my fingers jitter. I pull the covers around my shoulders, feeling my heart beat fast. And noticing the ache in my wrist. I click the reading lamp on and look down at the spot. Another soon-to-be bruise—a giant red welt that covers the front of my wrist and wraps around to the underside. So I grab the pen on my bedside table and add another point to the tally I've been keeping for the past two weeks since we moved here—to mark the sixth time this has happened. Six times. Six times that I've woken up with a sore spot on my body.