Page 88 of My Dark Divine
Muffling her voice, I do what I must. With one swift, trained motion, I slice his throat, feeling the rush of blood pouring from the open wound, the droplets staining my face and clothes. Nausea surges in my throat, a burning, bitter sensation that fills me.
Tears stream down my cheeks, but when I take a few steps back and open my eyes, I feel nothing. I see her screaming and thrashing against her bonds, and I can read the words on her lips, but they fall on deaf ears.
Someone takes the knife from my hand, and I feel Dad’s heavy hand on my shoulder as he pats it, mumbling something about pride.
The very thing I wanted to feel and hear from him for so long now leaves me with only a sense of void.
Everything around me blurs into a swirl of colors and indistinguishable noises. The last thing I register is Amelia’s faint voice repeating a word like a broken record.
Monster.
That’s what Dad calls me, too. And no matter how much I convinced myself I wasn’t like that, at this moment, I embrace the label. I am, indeed, a monster. Tonight has proven it. I will carry that label for the rest of my life.
And everyone knows that monsters don’t deserve to be loved.
Another fancy gathering filled with a crowd of clueless idiots. Another memorized speech and yet another worn-out answer to the same repetitive question about my private life. I still can’t grasp why they’re all so interested in it. No matter how highly they think of themselves, in the end, they’re nothing but leeches thriving on gossip.
What a fucking waste.
Venetia excused herself to the bathroom about twenty minutes ago and still hasn’t returned. I know it’s probably nothing serious—she’s just as tired of this situation as I am. We cope differently—she prefers long moments of solitude, while I need her right beside me to keep me grounded.
I don’t like her gone, but there’s nothing I can do. I won’t force her to stay and babysit me just because I’m starting to feel angry.
That anger, however, doesn’t bother me as much as the fact that she’s been acting distant today. When I picked her up, she refused to look at me, turning the music up to drown out the silence as we drove here. I couldn’t pry a single word from her.
Fear—an emotion I rarely experience—tightens around my insides, paralyzing me the more I dwell on these thoughts. I know she received the thousand-and-one deep-burgundy roses I sent to her doorstep this morning. It was Eli’s sorry bouquet that hit me hard—a stark reminder that I’ve never surprised her, never even thought to.
I mulled over my choice of flowers, unwilling to settle for anything ordinary for someone like her. Roses felt right, not just for their elegance but for what they represent—beauty tempered by thorns, delight underscored by pain. She embodies that balance, her sharp edges as captivating as her allure. Burgundy seemed fitting, mirroring the depth of her emotions and the intensity she brings.
Now, for some reason, my mind is boiling over with negative thoughts. What if she didn’t like it? Or maybe she did, but feels awkward because this gesture of mine is strange to her?
I just wish she’d at least spare me a glance. So much can be conveyed through a look, and I’ve spent enough time with her to understand her well without words.
As the wedding draws closer, Dad is too busy polishing his image. While he still needs our help, the process isn’t as active as it used to be. The realization terrifies me, as it means Venetia and I won’t have much time left together. I couldn’t stand being in her presence before, but now I can’t bear the thought of her distancing herself from me. I remember what she said about couples who sleep in separate beds. I don’t want that.
I want her with me.
She makes my days lighter. Yes, she has that fucking attitude and still tries to bite whenever she can, but as annoying as it gets, I don’t feel whole without it.
I’m sober now. I haven’t touched cocaine in about two weeks—my new personal record. I still feel dizzy, angry, and sometimes my nose itches, but the symptoms are bearable as long as she’s with me.
It feels like I’ve traded one addiction for another—swapping powder for something far more potent than any chemical high. I’m addicted to her now, body and soul. And I can’t stop thinking about how the fuck this happened. The moment it began slips further away from me the more I ponder it. There was life before her—a chaotic, drug-induced haze—and now there’s only this blur of emotions that makes me feel truly alive.
Perhaps it’s because she’s as broken as I am, both of us carrying the weight of our pasts, that she feels like home to me. Or maybe I’m just delusional and psychotic, as she loves to say. Probably a bit of both.
I can’t stay here, not another minute. I need her, desperately, like a drowning man gasping for air. The house we’re in is vast and opulent, with guests scattered throughout different rooms, mingling and catching up. She invited her friend, and I remember Grace saying she’d be on the second floor, in one of the rooms. Venetia must have come out of the bathroom ages ago, so I can only assume she’s with her.
I push through the crowd, trying to ignore the dizziness and growing annoyance. The air is saturated with the overpowering scent of luxury perfumes, assaulting my every sense. Venetia’s cherry perfume is the only scent I can handle. She has several versions, some stronger than others, and by now, I’ve gotten used to them all. It doesn’t just feel like tolerance, though—it’sthe only thing that keeps my social anxiety in check, preventing it from spiraling into anger in places like this.
Right now, the absence of it swells to a fever pitch, spreading an itch across my skin. The layers of fabric feel suffocating, and I feel feral with the urge to tear them off. It’s as if every scar on my body has come alive, each one aching, while something inside tries to split me apart.
A cold, heavy feeling settles in my gut, like a lead weight pressing down. My fingers claw at my face, unable to soothe the prickling unease that spreads through me.
Damn it,Venetia. Where the fuck are you?
I feel like I’m teetering on the edge when, finally, a familiar voice drifts into my ears from nearby. I stop in my tracks, straining my hearing to ensure I’m not hallucinating. But it’s unmistakable—no illusion could recreate her melodic voice so perfectly. An idiotic grin spreads across my face as I close the distance to the half-open door of a room. Her voice grows louder, easing the tension in my shoulders, and I take a deep breath, feeling a little more at ease.
“I can’t believe this!” Grace bursts out cheerfully. “I told you he can be good. And you didn’t believe me. Now I’m jealous, bitch.”
