Page 53 of My Dark Divine
Flashback
Age 16
“Are you sure you’re doing well enough?” Mom asks, and for some reason, my heart skips a beat. It always does when she asks that question. Even though I know I’m doing enough—more than enough—her tone and the way she narrows her eyes at me make me feel like I’m falling short.
It’s already been a year—a magical year of dating the man I’m deeply and irrevocably in love with. I’ve learned how to be better and discovered new ways to make him happy, all while finding happiness for myself in the process.
At least, I think so.
“Yes, Mom,” I reply quietly, struggling to inject confidence into my tone. Every conversation with her feels like a test, an interrogation. I often fail these types of tests simply because of the anxiety they provoke, even when I know I’ve done well.
“What about your intimacy?” she probes, and I bow my head down, shame slicing through me. I always get awkward when she talks about this subject again. It feels… wrong to discuss such things with her. “Do you satisfy him?”
“Mom!” I squeal, the tide of embarrassment rushing over me in an instant. “Stop asking this!”
“Answer me, Venetia.”
She closes the distance between us when I hesitate to respond, her hand gripping my chin. Her sharp nails dig into my skin, sending a wave of burning discomfort through me.
“I—I don’t remember,” I finally admit, forcing myself to look up at her. A frown creases her face as she studies me, still holding my chin in her grip. “I really don’t, Mom.”
A wave of self-awareness strikes me, sharp and sudden, as I realize I’m not lying. It sounds strange to say it out loud, but the truth is, I genuinely don’t remember.
“What does that mean?” she asks, her skepticism evident. “Don’t lie to me, Venetia.”
“I’m not lying, I swear!” I almost shout, surprised by my outburst. I never snap at Mom like this. But I’m afraid of what she will do if I’m not able to convince her. “Sorry. I just... He says he loves me. And, well, he says I’m good at it. It’s really good, Mom.”
I think my lack of memory mostly stems from the pills I’m now taking regularly. I tried to convince Zayden to go without them, but he insisted that they would help me feel more relaxed and confident. I feel ashamed to admit it, but I’m still far from that.
Confident. The word feels weird even when I just think about it.
I doubt I’ll ever accept the way I look. It only got worse when Zayden started taking me to the parties he and his friends throw, where I’m surrounded by dozens of other girls. I don’t look like any of them. They all have curvy figures, beautiful, thick hair, and angelic faces. Every time we go to those parties, I feel like an ugly duckling who’s been thrown in by accident. It’s gotten to the point where I can hear whispers and giggles behind my back whenever we’re around them.
I know it’s probably just my imagination, but I can’t shake off these thoughts. Mom keeps insisting that once Zayden and I are married, I’ll have plenty of money to afford any surgery I want. Honestly, I’m counting down the days. I want to stop feeling awkward and insecure.
I want to look pretty.
Mom coughs, letting go of my chin and turning away. I stand up in an instant, moving to her side to support her as I help her into a chair. She’s feeling worse—much worse. The thought of something bad happening to her haunts me. It occupies my mind from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep. It’s overwhelming, and all I want to do is help her, but I feel powerless.
“Mom, are you okay?” I ask cautiously as I settle beside her. I know it’s a rhetorical question. It’s been like this since I found out the reason behind her worsened condition.
Breast cancer. Nobody knows how or why, and all the doctors say the same thing: she needs treatment, and she needs it quickly. Otherwise, it’s only going to get much worse.
She takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Oh, baby, I hate to say this, but I’m not okay. I really am not,” she rasps. “I need you to try harder for me, okay? Your dad needs to finalize that deal with Zayden’s father, but he’s hesitant. You need tohelp us convince him,” she explains, brushing her thumb across my skin. “That money will help your momma a lot.”
I nod, both to her and to myself. I will do anything I can to make her feel better. She gets angrier when she feels worse, and sometimes, she takes it out on me, and I don’t like that.
I want my mom back.
“Okay, I’ll talk to him. I promise. I’m worried about you.”
A strained smile flickers across her face. “Worrying won’t help, Venetia. Don’t waste your time on that. Use your energy wisely—spend it on Zayden. We need him, do you understand?”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply. “You can count on me, Mom.”
A suffocating cloud of tobacco,weed, alcohol, and expensive perfumes fills the air, making the atmosphere heavy with discomfort. I feel dizzy, my senses dulled, despite not having smoked or drunk anything at all—no matter how much they insisted I should.
Oh, how they insisted.
