Page 39 of My Dark Divine
“Yes!” he yells, bringing his free hand to his nose and rubbing the spot underneath. Some things stay the same—even now, as I sit in the passenger seat, my life in his hands, he doesn’t give a fuck. He got high intentionally, maybe even wishing for a crashbecause his selfishness knows no bounds. “You’re a fucking insane bitch who can’t shut her mouth for one minute!”
My muscles, sore and spent, refuse to keep struggling, and I slump forward, burying my face in my hands. My pulse races, and fury burns through me, blending with a sickening despair that tastes like acid on my tongue.
“I fucking hate you,” I mumble, a sob wracking my exhausted body. “I hate you so much.”
“Well, guess what, Venetia? I fucking hate you too!” he snaps, his voice trembling in sync with my own. “You think I want this? That I want to be here with you right now? That I want to fucking fly to another state and share the same hotel room? Huh?”
He raises his voice, transforming from a shaky whisper to a full-blown scream, which only intensifies my tears as I shake my head, fighting to maintain my sanity.
Stop fucking screaming at me.
Although I can feel those cerulean eyes drilling into me, I refuse to meet his gaze. I’m terrified—either I’ll succumb and leave another bruise on his face, or I’ll freeze and glimpse something in his depths that I don’t want to see.
“I’d do anything to be somewhere else. Fuck—” He bursts into laughter, its raspy, strained quality underscored by a wicked tone. “You know what?”
“Stop, just stop.” His anger burns so intensely it feels like flames licking my skin, forcing me to become the one who begs. “Please.”
“I’d relive last night, taking punch after punch to my face and body, just to avoid being here with you,” he pushes mercilessly. “I’d welcome ten more rounds of that just to fucking escapeyou.”
Tears and snot roll down my face as I tremble, muffling my pleas in my hands, feeling just as pathetic as I appear.
When he finally stops enumerating every reason for his disdain, I press myself further into the corner of my seat, wiping my endless tears with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Silence blankets the drive, punctuated only by his ragged breaths and my faint sobs, as heavy metal plays softly in the background.
It’s going to be a long fucking journey, and the days ahead in Washington will be even longer.
Flashback
Age 15
Ilean over the faucet, catching icy water as I spit out the crimson liquid dripping from my mouth. A fleeting sense of relief washes over me as the cold dilutes the heated metallic taste, though I know it won’t last long.
Today, Dad lost a lot of money, and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—as usual—earning myself a good little punishment. When he gets angry, he completely blacks out, and it always ends the same—with my face bruised and swollen from his fury as I desperately try to wash away the blood.
Usually, it takes me about ten minutes to clean up, but today feels like an eternity. Breathing is harder, and I’m starting to think he might have broken my nose.
Not that I can do anything about it now. I’m already late for class, and no one is going to care if I ask for a doctor. Everyone has the same opinion about me—a guy who can’t control his emotions and lashes out at everyone, ending up with a busted face. They don’t know I’ve never initiated a fight, not with my peers, not with anyone.
My dad is too perfect in their eyes for anyone to believe what he does. And why would I bother telling anyone? I’m not a whiny pussy looking for help. I can manage.
Pressing a paper towel under my nose, I let the material soak up the blood—all in a desperate attempt to stop the flow, at least until my class ends. But it’s all futile. Sighing in annoyance, I decide it’s pointless to stay in the bathroom, so I let my feet carry me out.
I knock before swinging the door open and stepping into the classroom with my head bowed. I look and feel like shit—my face and body are smeared with sweat and blood, my backpack is torn, and I’m wearing a loose sweatshirt riddled with holes, paired with cargo pants in the same condition, if not worse. It’s almost funny considering my dad is one of the richest people in the state.
Chloe gets all the clothes, makeup, and gadgets she wants while I’m stuck earning mine. And let me tell you, it’s impossible. Dad seems to take pleasure in how everyone laughs at my appearance, and even when I do the job he assigns me flawlessly, he still never bothers to get me new clothes.
“Ah, West,” the teacher greets me, his tone flat and devoid of emotion. He’s used to my tardiness and still thinks it’s because I’m an irresponsible fuck-up who enjoys getting on his nerves. “Twenty minutes late. Should I call your father again?”
It’s a never-ending cycle—getting beaten up until it’s hard to move, spending precious time in the school bathroom cleaning myself up before class, arriving late, and him calling Dad to complain about my behavior. As always, Dad promises to talk with me, and when I get home, he uses his fists again—not because of a bad day at work, but because the teacher reported my lateness.
A storm of whispers erupts around me, quickly escalating into laughter. I catch snippets of ‘weirdo’ and ‘idiot’ among the other indistinguishable names they love to call me.
The irony is, I could silence them all effortlessly by taking each of them down. But ignoring them feels like the better option—I already deal with enough violence at home and have no desire to bring it here and inflict it on my classmates.
The teacher ignores the laughter as he continues to bombard me with questions that I can’t answer. Every day, he feels the need to scold me in front of everyone. I feel utterly helpless—before him, my classmates, and my dad. The anger boiling inside me is hot and searing, twisting my insides and fraying my nerves. I want to scream, but on the outside, I am paralyzed, my mouth clamped shut.
Every time I have to act or speak, my tongue feels tied, and my limbs become unresponsive. It’s as if an unseen cage is closing in on me, offering no chance to break free. I am a puppet confined in a glass box, exposed to a crowd that laughs and points at my helplessness.
Finally, when the teacher finishes his pointless lecture, he gestures to my seat. I quickly jog to my desk, careful to step over the outstretched legs of my classmates, who love to trip me. I made the mistake of not paying attention once and ended up on the floor while they laughed at my expense.
