ONE
VALENTINA
September 11th, 2025
Haveyou ever been so deep underwater, you no longer know which way is up? It’s cold and dark—above and below you an inky mirage—and the weight of the waves and burn in your lungs drive you into a state of dissociative panic?If you could just breathe, then you’d be able to think enough to figure out which way is safe.
Have you ever been so deep underwater, you no longer know which way is up,and you just give up?Not because it’s easier, but because the pain of living’s no longer worth the struggle?
At fifteen, I tried to end my life because I thought I’d never again feel joy or peace—that death was the only relief I might get from the shame and despair, that nothing and no one could ever make me feel worse.
But now, staring at the life my brother’s made for himself and the woman he loves—giving up not only the legacyI sacrificed everything for, but me in the process—I realize I didn’t yet know pain.
But I do now. And like then, when I’d tied bricks to my ankles and dove into the lake behind our family home, I no longer know which way is up.
I’m drowning in anger and sorrow.
Sucking deeply on the joint, the revolver in my palm like a brick around my ankle, I continue to stare at the warm light filtering out through the small kitchen window. Tears burn my cheeks, but I don’t bother wiping them away.There’s no point.
I drop the burning ember, pushing the tip of my red-bottomed heel into the sand. A light buzz covers the surface of my skin, but it does nothing for the ocean of sorrow filling my chest. My phone rings again, and I mash my finger against the power button—effectively shutting him out alongside any chance at redemption.
I don’t want it.
Movement catches my eye in the window, a dark-haired, crimson-cheeked woman materializing:Adalene.
Anger and devastation rip through me at the sight of her smiling—so full of joy—despite everything she’s faced this year. Everything I’ve brought upon her, because that’s what I do:poison and destroy all that is good.She laughs, her head tipping back at something someone must’ve said, and it’s the final straw in my restraint—witnessing her joy is like seeing the life I should have had,if only I was better.
But I’m not, and I can’t rest until I’ve destroyed everything I should have been.
I push off the hood of the car, tears dripping off my chin, and raise the revolver until the barrel’s covering her perfect head in my blurring vision. Her eyes snap up, meeting mine through the thin glass, and I watch fear contort her features until they no doubt match my own.
I did that to her—destroying her sense of safety and security in the one place she deserves to feel safe. And even though I hate myself, I can’t stop.
We stay locked in a silent battle, her unmoving, me unbreathing. My finger trembles against the trigger—I’ve never learned how to use a gun, but how hard can it really be?But even as I think it, I know that’s not why I’m shaking, not really.
This is wrong. I don’t want to hurt my brother, and I definitely don’t want to hurt her. So why can’t I stop? Why can’t I control my anger and hatred?
The sound of the door opening to my left instantly grabs my attention, and I freeze as a familiar face emerges, her blonde hair and translucent skin making me forget my anger—for a split second anyway.
“What’re you doing?” she asks, her voice light, as if I’m not currently holding a gun.
“What’re you doing?” I challenge, my grip wavering on the cool steel.
“You don’t want to do this, Valentina.” Her voice is comforting, a soothing balm to my raw and ravaged soul.
At first, when McCrae brought her to the house a few weeks ago, I wanted to hate her. I don’t know how to have friends, and I certainly don’t know how to have friends who are girls. I’m not comfortable with the soft and gentle—but like a weed growing in a small crack in the pavement, Faith’s taken root in my life—like it or not.She comforts my aching heart, and it’s a fact I’m not used to, or a fan of.
I prefer pain and anger over whatever it is she makes me feel.
But even when I’ve been nothing but nasty to her, she keeps showing up.
“I do,” I snarl, but there’s less bite in my voice.
“You’re hurt, but Dale’s not the one who hurt you.” Faith steps closer, never once showing fear.
“Don’t tell me what I am.”
“Okay. But I know what you’re not. You’re not a murderer—not of the woman your brother loves more than anyone.”
