Page 71 of My Dark Divine
Confusion tightens within me, and I blink, struggling to keep up. “What?”
He takes a deep breath, shaking his head slightly as if silently scolding me for things I haven’t done. “Marijuana, cocaine, acid, etcetera,” he lists. “Do you?”
I take the meds Zayden gives me to feel more relaxed and confident, but aside from that, I don’t use anything else. I don’t want to lie to the doctor, but I’m not sure what to say. The truth might sound like a lie—I don’t know what these pills are called—but I can’t see any other options. “Um… I don’t know.”
His brows rise, betraying his shock. “You don’t know?” he repeats skeptically.
A wave of shivers runs through me as I pick at the skin around my nails. Zayden’s remark about how ‘disgusting’ I make my hands look flashes through my mind, but I won’t stop repeating the usual routine.
It has become the only way to manage my anxiety.
“I mean… My friend gave me something a couple of times to help me relax. It helps me tolerate him better, so I didn’t even bother to ask what it was.” I laugh, and he responds with a faint twitch of his lips, a clear sign of his disdain for me. If I were in his shoes, I would feel the same way.
“How regular is your period?” he asks, his tone strict and unwavering, sharply contrasting with my forced cheerfulness.
I came to the clinic because the pain had become unbearable. It seems to grow worse with each passing day, and as much as I hoped that ignoring it would make it disappear, I couldn’t have been more wrong. On the contrary, the agony has intensified to the point where I can’t even sleep.
“I don’t remember,” I mumble.
“Ah, Venetia.” He shakes his head, disapproval etched on his face. “You don’t know anything, you don’t remember anything. How can I help you, then?”
“It was a long time ago,” I squeak out, my nerves on the edge of snapping. I’m so tired of everyone looking at me like I’m a liar, unworthy of trust. I feel like a prisoner banging on the bars of a cell, wanting someone to understand what’s really going on.
I’m not lying. I’m just scared of the truth.
“Venetia, I need you to listen to me,” he says, leaning in closer. “If you keep drugging yourself like this, the consequences will be far more devastating than they already are.”
My heart stumbles mid-beat. “Then they already are?”
He pauses, tapping the tip of his pen against the table. “Your reproductive hormone balance is already disrupted enough. It will be difficult for you to get pregnant in the future—nearly impossible because of the damage you’ve done. The pain you’re feeling is a result of your body’s natural balance being ruined. It needs a break, and if you don’t stop using drugs, something much worse could happen.”
The doctor continues to talk, but I’m lost in a haze. What he says doesn’t seem real, and I can’t make sense of any of it. It just doesn’t connect.
I hadn’t realized how lost I was until I walked in here. I couldn’t answer most of his questions—not because I forgot, butbecause I genuinely don’t know. I don’t know anything about myself anymore.
I don’t know what Zayden does to me when I’m dazed.
I don’t know anything about the medications he insists I take.
I don’t know what those medications do to me.
I don’t understand why waking up every day feels like such a challenge.
I don’t know why everything hurts—both physically and mentally. The pain keeps intensifying, and I can only stand by and watch it grow stronger.
Because that’s all I ever do.
I watch.
Even now, I’m still at a loss for what to do. I can’t share this with anyone—getting here without anyone knowing was difficult enough. I have no one to confide in about this. As each day passes, the emptiness inside me sharpens its claws, gnawing at my insides and feeding on what’s left of my emotions. It only grows—bigger and stronger—and I can’t stop it, helpless while it makes everything feel worse with each passing day.
The loneliness I feel is overwhelming, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find a way to fill the void inside me—or even if I want to. Mom insists that I’m the happiest woman alive, convinced that all I’ve accomplished has transformed me into a better version of myself.
Though I achieved something, it took everything from me, and now I feel as though I’ve lost the essence of who I am in the process.
Not that it matters anymore.
As I shutthe door behind me, I brace myself for the trek upstairs. Dad’s voice calls my name, trailing behind me like an annoying echo of relentless demands. I pretend not to hear him, my gaze fixed on the ground. My body still trembles, and the shaking worsens as the reality of facing him sinks in.
