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About the author:
Victoria Klahr lives in Virginia Beach, Virginia with her dreamy husband of four years and their two beautiful daughters. She is a self-proclaimed book-nerd who likes to sniff books before she reads them and fantasizes about book boyfriends. She is the author of the Promises, Promises series, including That’s a Promise, That’s a Lie, and That’s a Relief. She writes happily-ever-afters one heartache and tragedy at a time, and won’t apologize for making you cry.
What inspired you to write your book?
This is the third book int he Promises, Promises series (the first two, That’s a Promise and That’s a Lie are FREE). I was inspired by my readers. They wanted more, and continued to encourage me to write and finish this book. It was extremely important to me to write something that explored depression and guilt and sexual assault. This book hit all of those marks. I am in love with it, and hope everyone else is too.
Here is a short sample from the book:
My hands shake as I flip through pictures one by one, each one worse than the last. My stomach twists and turns and churns as the horror of each image plows me in the stomach.
“No,” I cry, tracing the outline on each glossy page. “I’m so sorry.”
A thousand razors slice my insides with every breath I take. I can’t … I can’t take it. I run into the bathroom and fall over the toilet, emptying my already empty stomach. The sobs wrack my whole body while I lie on the cool tile of the floor unable to move. Unwilling to move.
What’s the point?
What’s left for me anyway?
I’ll never get them back.
I catch a glimpse of a picture that fell from my hand and turn away screaming. I wrap my arms around my stomach, the sickness and guilt and disparity vibrating through my veins. My breaths keep coming even when I don’t want them to, a sharp suck of air that taunts me—reminding me that I still have to live in this shitty reality.
An orange pill bottle stands out on the bathroom counter. They can help me forget. They can take me away. They can make it go away.
I want that.
I need that.
In a daze, I stand up and grab the bottle.
Oblivion. Peace. Nothingness.
An image pops into my head, and I put the pill bottle back down, run into my room and grab a pen and piece of paper. I rush back to the bathroom and lock the door, breathing hard. Checking to make sure the bottle is still there, I sit in front of the tub and write four words.
It’s not your fault.
With shaking hands, I clumsily pour the remaining white pills into my palm. Whether it’s brave or entirely stupid, I swallow down as many as I can before falling into the beautiful oblivion.
Pounding echoes in the back of mind. Screaming.
They fade away with the effects of the drugs.
I finally feel nothing.