I swallow the emotion in my throat. “N-nothing.”
“N-nothing,” He mocks before releasing me with a push. “Next time you fuck up, don’t have that damn school calling me to fix it.”
I put my head down. “Yes, sir.”
“Go to your room. I don’t want to see you.” He dismisses me as he turns his back on me. He shakes his head in disappointment. “You’re just like your fucking mother.”
His words cut deep, refreshing that bitter wound as it picks away at the flesh.
You look just like her.
Fuck, you even sound like her sometimes.
I’ve never considered myself ugly, but the more I’m reminded of the woman who walked out on me, the more I grow to despise what I see in the mirror. It’s all conditioning—the constant reminders, the smells that shape my very thought process, and the sickening realization that sometimes I think they’re right.
Because just like my mother, I want to run away.
I want toescape.
It’s a pipe dream, but one I fantasize about often. Starting a new life in a new place where no one knows who I am. I would have a little, clean apartment, maybe a cat to greet me after my long day at the local coffee shop.
Something that’s entirely mine and not tainted by the greedy hands and mouths of those who cut me down every chance they get. It’s a distant goal, but a goal nonetheless.
It’s what keeps me going, because I have to have something to hold onto.
I trudge to my room, careful not to make any sudden movements or noise as I set my backpack down and close my door. Once it’s locked, I rest my forehead on the old wood. I close my eyes and let the darkness drag me under.
This is the only time I allow myself to get swallowed by the festering disease that grows with every passing day. It’s my time to reflect and create a world where none of this suffering exists.
It’s peace, and despair wrapped up tightly into one horrid package.
And it’s entirelymine.
Chapter Five
Kiaro
Raven black pin-straight hair that’s usually matted and tangled is like a fucking beacon to us. It’s easy to pick out Rosalie in any photos of her that surface online. It’s all the same snapshots over and over again.
An old picture of her from the one time she went to camp.
A Facebook photo of her posing with a distant aunt who doesn’t seem to care about the poor thing’s home life.
In all of them, bright green eyes, the color of gemstones, are full of suffering and pain. She never smiles, and I like it that way.
Something about her agony is entertaining to me. Call it the fucked up portion of my mind that revels in anything sick, or the morbid fascination of just how far I can push this girl. Whatever it is, I can’t take my eyes off of Roman’s computer screen as I flick through the same photos.
My friends are seated in front of Roman’s flat-screen in his room, playing a game that requires a lot of focus. I can hear the shots ringing out of the TV’s speakers, but I’m not nearly as interested in that as I am this.
“You’re going to turn to stone if you keep looking at her,” Roman calls out to me over the sounds of his player dying for a second time.
Maddox is quiet, his attention trained on the screen. He’s still alive and well in the game, and now pulling the first-place spot as he guns down another online player.
Truth be told, Rosalie isn’t an ugly duckling. She’s fair-skinned with delicate features. Her button nose and plump,pale lips could draw anyone’s attention to her, and if she put a good brush to the mop on her head, it would transform her.
She’s pretty.
But looks alone can’t save her from what we have in store for her. All of our agendas are different in their own ways, but we share one common interest.
