Page 148 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One
Not for this.
Sometimes survival means knowing when to walk away.
Even if every step feels like surrender.
So when I silently spin around and begin to walk away, the spike in laughter and cheers of victory are nothing but hollow echoes that chase for my attention.
Only, I can no longer have the tolerance to acknowledge their existence. Not when it feels like everything is spiraling apart.
My world is crashing down, leaving me to question why the fuck did I go along with this. Fall down this rabbit hole like some sort of hero that was going to save all those trapped in this cycle of wickedness like it’ll protect my honor.
Like it would reward me with honors I never dreamed of.
This is what always leads me down paths that level scars upon my flesh, which seems rather ironic because I just made some sort of blood covenant with two men that said they’ll never allow another to leave a scar on my flesh again.
Yet, doesn’t this count as a scar?
Does it have to be one made with the tip of a knife and an endless flow of blood streaming from the opened wound to be deemed scar-worthy?
I’m walking and thinking about how my life keeps bringing me into instances like this.
Falling hard in love with the typical “bad boy” only to be humiliated and tortured like an object that deserves to be ruined for not meeting the part…as a submissive girlfriend.
Now here I go again, walking down a path that should have led me in and out of a situation, but there I go again. Trying to be a hero instead of a fucking villain.
And now look at this pathetic end I get to face.
The laughing stock who saved those souls for what?
They would have joined in on these theatrics. Joined in laughing and mocking me. In witnessing and documenting someone actually pouring urine on me.
What would stop them from doing feces?
What would taunt them from doing something more extensive like acid?
It’s not like I haven’t seen it happen.
The aftermath of victims’ deformed faces and how the world simply looks at them with pity and nothing more because it could never be them.
It wouldn’t be punishable in the slightest.
No. Not here. It would simply be deemed a “wicked” gesture that I’m worthy of carrying.
More golden stars to claim —to collect— like a reward worth flaunting the world.
This world of testosterone where I don’t belong…
I never belonged in this equation, to begin with…
So it’s time to exit.
Or else I’ll be the next victim to fizzle away…carrying burdens of regret I won’t be able to fix.
Grudges that won’t be avenged.
As I walk out of that box of laughter, I accept one thing.
My list of grudges has increased, and I know who’s second on the list.
