She stayed with him. I hit the bag. She wanted to stay after everything. I hit the bag harder. The way she looked at him makes me sick.
I stepped away from the bag, bowed my head, and placed my hands on my hips. Logic tried to work its way into my mind, but I was too overloaded with grief and rage.
I walked over to the shelf and picked up the scotch, downing another shot, coughing as it made its way down. I was starting to feel unstable, but that wasn’t going to stop me. I knew I’d keep going until I was numb, until I couldn’t feel it any longer.
Leaving the blood-stained punching bag behind, I walked into my room and headed straight for the bathroom. I set the decanter on the counter, took off my shoes, and stripped off the rest of my clothes. I placed my hands on the edge of the counter and leaned against it.
I was still trying to process what Donicko had told me about Marcella, too. She may not have been my real mother, but she was still my mother. I had no idea how to feel about never seeing my real mother or if I could even believe a word that came out of his mouth. I couldn’t think of a reason why he’d make something like that up, but with Donicko, you could never tell. I’d always wondered what John meant by his words that fatal night, why he’d said she wasn’t my mother. I didn’t want to believe any of it.
Then he had to throw Sophia in my face? How I’d isolated myself? He’d spent a lot of time with John at the house, so he knew the kind of hell I’d put myself through as a kid. I’d shut myself off, only letting Luke in, but even then it was only a little bit.
Cutting was my only escape, the only thing that made sense to me. It was the one thing I could always count on, the one thing I had control over.
I pulled the drawer open, the razor calling to me. The itch that had been nagging to be mollified was tugging at my subconscious. Encouraging me to pick it up, it was my addiction, the only way to make it stop. It was my rock. The one fucking thing I had.
Control.
Drifting my eyes up, I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes belonged to the mother I never knew, and the blood running through my veins belonged to a man with a soul of pure evil.
What did that make me?
Alone. Evil.
Darkness.
I looked down at my scars, turning from side to side to get a better look. All these years, I’d cut not only to relieve myself of the guilt but as retribution for letting Sophia down. Each scar represented a time when life was too much for me. When all I wanted to do was curl up and die from all the things I’d done. From the hurt I’d caused. The pain I’d inflicted on others. The lives I’d destroyed. The only mother I’d ever known who died by my hands.
I looked at myself in the mirror and scrunched up my face. The rage that had been building over time had accumulated into a ball of fury, and there was nothing I could do to hold it back.
“You disgust me!” I roared, lifting my fist to punch the mirror with all I had.
It shattered into a million pieces, sending shards flying everywhere. I heaved with exertion as pain shot through my already torn-up fist and I gritted my teeth, holding back the groan I wanted to let out. I took a few breaths then looked around at the mess, choosing the biggest shard of glass, and picked it up.
I rotated it in my hand and thought about how easy it would be to stab myself in the neck. One little cut could end it all: the pain, the guilt, the self-loathing I’d been carrying for so long.
I lifted my hand and stared at it, willing myself to just do it.
I squeezed my eyes shut and felt the tears run down my face. It shocked me for only a moment, an emotion I hadn’t shown since I was little.
“Do it!”
I squeezed the glass in my palm, cutting the skin, but I didn’t care. I was full of scars anyway, on the inside and outside. What was one more?
Blackness filled my eyes and the itch took over. Without a thought, I drew my hand down swiftly and slit open the front of my thigh. A place I’d never cut before.
I groaned out in pain and dropped the shard of glass as I fell to the floor. More tears pooled in my eyes, and I couldn’t contain them as they rolled down my face.
A feeling of complete and utter emptiness filled my soul.
Twenty-two
Mason
Nineteen years old
All those girls. All those lives ruined.
I was weak.
How did I ever think I could protect Sophia when I couldn’t even protect myself?
They did exactly what I’d been denying all along. They used me, just like they used her. We had both been trapped in a web of lies. The only one of us who had stayed in reality was her. She knew her fate and dealt with what I was unable to.
I was disgusted with myself.
Donicko liked to play games, but I never knew his end goal. What was the point of showing me that room? All those girls waiting to be degraded, viewed as if they were some piece of meat.
But hadn’t that been what I was a part of? Hadn’t I violated my fair share? I’d done this to nine girls.