39. Hope
CHAPTER 39
Hope
B y the third day, the bruises have started to turn yellow. My mother came into my bedroom after I’d showered one morning, and I’d accidentally walked out wrapped only in a towel. When I noticed, I literally was in such a rush to close the bathroom door that I slipped and awkwardly landed on my hip, causing another bruise. But crisis averted.
If she found out I was seeing Braxton, she would’ve told my father. I really don’t want to deal with that situation, especially when I have no idea how I feel about it myself.
Have I been avoiding him again? Yes. Absolutely. I ran so fast out of his apartment, and I’ve been in a spiral ever since.
Accepting my feelings for Braxton is one thing, but knowing what to do with them is a completely separate matter. Because I can’t act on them, can I? There are so many other things I should be focusing on. And yet, he consumes my thoughts night and day. He literally haunts me not only in my waking hours but also when I sleep. I’m pretty sure I’m going crazy. That’s the only answer to all of this.
As I get out of the car at midday, preparing myself for a full evening in the studio, I take a sip of my black coffee. I’ve hardly been able to sleep these past three nights, analyzing all of the different outcomes, but they keep coming to the same end. There can’t be a relationship between me and Braxton. Not the type I might want. And I think I want to be with Braxton. The thought of any other woman with him curdles my stomach and brings an immediate rage that overrides clear thinking.
But he’s a detective. The last person I can introduce to my family. And I can’t imagine any sane man throwing his career away for me. No matter how great I am. He’d have to fall from grace for me, and even then, my family would never trust him. Even if I made them vow not to touch him, they’d find a way to permanently remove him from my life. This will only end in bloodshed. He’s not mine to have. So doesn’t it make sense for me to be the one to pull the trigger?
I take another sip of my coffee as the elevator stops on the floor for my studio. When the doors open, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised to see him waiting for me, but that feeling of unease swirls in the pit of my stomach. It makes it hard to swallow my coffee. I know I’ve come to the same conclusion for us over and over again, but it doesn’t make me any less affected by the outcome because I do want him, even when I pretend I don’t.
I grip my bag as I walk closer to the door. He reaches out and takes the bag from my hand, as if it’s something he’s done many times. These moments of time we steal together are as natural as they come, even though every time, it risks something for both of us.
“No pancakes this week?” he asks. He and I both know why I haven’t been to the café lately—because I’m avoiding him.
I push my glasses up my nose and shake my head as I unlock the door. He follows behind me, scanning the room. It’s a mess. The counters are covered in clay and pieces that I have discarded. I don’t really like to clean up too much because I find the chaotic mess somewhat of a comfort. I have a cleaner come in once a month, though. I just like it when it feels busy, like a room full of treasures. He picks up a piece of clay, inspects it, and then puts it back on the counter as he looks at me. “Are you working?” he asks.
I remove my coat and hang it on the back of the door, revealing my overalls. “Yes.” Obviously. That’s why I come here. It goes without saying, but he doesn’t care if he imposes here, and, surprisingly, he’s one of only a few I don’t mind being in my space. “Aren’t you working today?”
The dull topic is a way for us to dance around the questions and answers we really want. The ones hovering over us like a scythe that neither of us dare to touch yet. Because what conclusion has he come to? Does he even like me? What if it’s all gone to my head? Fuck . What if I’m being conceited? If that’s the case, I’ve definitely spent far too much time around Hawke.
“Day off, actually,” he says, which means very little to him since he works even when he’s not working. I suppose he and I are similar in that regard. “Do you want me to leave?”
I glance up at him then. He’s left my bag beside the door and moved deeper into the studio. It feels as if he swallows the space around him. This space of mine, this sanctuary. It doesn’t look so bad on him.
“You can stay,” I answer quietly. I mean, he’s already here, and there’s an ease he brings with him, as much as it unsettles me that we could be caught.
He smirks and drags a stool over to the station where I’m working. It feels strange having him sit next to me, but I’m not entirely against it. In fact, I lean into it a little as I turn my classical music on to play quietly in the background. I usually have it blasting, but this time, I keep it lower so I can focus more on his breathing.
“Is this where you do your glass sculptures as well?” he asks inquisitively.
I smirk, not yet admitting to it openly. I actually work on those in a completely different studio. Somewhere small and quaint that no one knows I bought about a year ago.
He grins as he grabs my coffee and takes a sip. I go to reprimand him for it, then stop myself. I suppose it’s no different to when he steals the remains of my pancakes and drinks my coffee at the café.
“How’s your skin?” he asks.
“See for yourself,” I tell him while my hands are preoccupied with a clump of wet clay. He unclips my overalls and lifts my shirt, revealing my breasts. His fingertips brush against the skin, tracing one of the yellowing bruises. His crystal-blue eyes darken as he stares longingly at the marks he left.
“I liked it,” I remind him, quite enjoying his touch. I try to focus on the sculpture in front of me.
“Tell me all about your favorite parts of that night,” he whispers into my ear, and it elicits goose bumps along my arms. A steady pulse begins at my core.
“Behave while I’m working,” I growl.
He chuckles as he clips my overalls back up and then leans back, watching me. “You must have liked it. You came if I remember correctly,” he says.
“It must’ve been a figment of your imagination. Surely, you’re not that good,” I sass back.
He laughs, and it relieves all the tension that’s settled in my shoulders over the last few days. How can one man make me feel so at ease when he’s one of the main reasons I’m in a fluster in the first place?
I lick my lips as I think about when I left his apartment: his mother and the things she said. Perhaps I should be sorry for scaring her like that, but I’m not. I glance in his direction, and he rolls his eyes.
“Ask your question, Shortcake.”
It’s unnerving how well he knows me after such a short amount of time. Then again, I suppose he’s been watching me for months. Someone as clever as Braxton is literally paid to be observant.
“Did you help your mother?”
“No. And I don’t intend to.” Silence stretches between us and then he expels a long breath. “I’ve never had a good relationship with her. So I cut her off.”
“Oh,” is all I can manage to say because the fact that he’s telling me this means something, doesn’t it?
“No Dad?” I inquire. From the file Ivy curated for me, I noted there’s no father named on his birth certificate, but I want to hear it from him. I’m even more curious to see if he lies about it.
“Nope. Lone wolf. I have a sister somewhere, but she disowned me the same as my mother. They only come crawling to me when they need something.”
I think about how sad that is. I couldn’t imagine not having the supportive and functional family I have despite its shortcomings. I’ve always known love, felt provided for and cherished. I wonder if Braxton has ever felt loved or if it’s something he can’t accept. Maybe I really am in over my head to think he could accept me and what I have to offer him.
What do I have to offer him?
“Does it… hurt?” I ask, unsure of how much I can pry.
“No. I came to terms with that a long time ago. Besides, I’m not looking at the past anymore,” he answers, and when I meet his gaze, he’s staring at me. I can’t help but wonder if there’s more he’s not saying. “You know I’m here for a reason, right, Shortcake?”
The sculpture wavers between my fingers, and I quickly correct my hands as I stop working on it. “And why are you here?” I ask carefully, my heart racing as his gaze dips to my lips. I can hear my heart thumping in my ears.
A knock sounds on my door, disrupting both of us. I stand quickly as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong, a spike of adrenaline fueling me for an entirely different reason now.
Hardly anyone comes here, especially during the day. So I’m confused that someone has access to my studio. I’m surprised when the door opens, and I see my father, whose gaze immediately narrows on Braxton.
“Dad?!” I squeak. A muscle in Braxton’s jaw jumps as he holds the same strangled gaze with my father. That’s a big fucking mistake.
I step in front of him, then approach my father, wiping my hands on my overalls. I’m not sure what type of cover story I can come up with for having a detective in my workspace, but I’ll have to think of something quick-smart.
“Your mother asked me to check on you,” Dad says as my aunt pushes past him.
“Pfft. Is that the story we’re sticking to?” She rolls her eyes and comes to give me a kiss on the cheek in greeting. She quickly scans the room, a low hum of approval, considering she was the one who bought me this place as a gift for my eighteenth birthday. And then her gaze lands on Braxton.
She eyes him up and down, and I know she knows he’s a police officer. Even if he’s not dressed like one, she knows when someone isn’t one of us. She’s very good at managing people, or more so identifying them for who they really are.
“And you are?” she asks suspiciously as my father steps farther into the room and shuts the door behind him. My father’s glare shifts to me, and I’m uncomfortable at its fierceness. I’ve never disappointed my father. Never so much as given him a reason to ground me, let alone not trust me. But it’s as if I’m feeling all of that tenfold.
I go to speak, but there’s a lump in my throat. I’ve never felt the wrath of the Ivanov siblings, and I’ve never had to endure their judgment. That dark little thing within me wants to stand up to them, but who am I but a child in a game they’ve been playing all their life?
“I’m Braxton,” Braxton says as if saving me from my own cowardice. He jumps off the stool and leaves my coffee mug on the counter. “I was just dropping off a coffee for Hope.”
“Is it poisoned?” Aunt Anya asks with a thick Russian accent. It means she’s angry. My father remains quiet, and it unsettles me the way he watches my every move. Especially when I deliberately step in front of Braxton, too terrified that either of them will act on impulse and ask questions later.
“Poison is not my forte, although I heard it was for one of your sons recently.”
“Excuse me?” Anya grits and steps forward. I seem to surprise both of them as I shove myself between them. I have my hand on her shoulder and the other pressing against Braxton as he smirks.
My aunt will definitely kill him, especially because of the mention of her sons.
I give Braxton a disapproving glare. Picking a fight with my aunt is not the way to do this. “Braxton was just leaving. He was following up on that case from when I got arrested.”
“Arrested?! You didn’t tell me this,” Anya seethes at my father. But my father says nothing, just stares into Braxton’s soul as he readjusts his gloves, most likely thinking of all the creative ways he’s going to kill him.
“You should leave town,” Anya is quick to say to Braxton. “Not that I think you’ll get far with broken legs.”
“That’s enough!” I yell as Braxton goes to reply. “You should leave. Now.”
Braxton’s gaze shifts to me, staring at me like I’m a stranger. It hurts more than it should, and my stomach sinks as if I’ve betrayed him, but I’m literally doing all I can to de-escalate the situation so he leaves here alive. Why does he not understand that?
“I’m not scared of your family, Shortcake.”
But he should be. Right now, though, the way he looks at me, it’s as if he’s pitying me. As if I’m more scared of them finding out about us than he is. That makes him, by definition, crazy.
“Go,” I mouth. He’s reluctant to leave, but I don’t need to remind him that this is my family. They may be dangerous, but never to me.
He grinds his jaw and kicks up an insincere smile. I’m certain he does it to piss them off even more. My aunt looks at him like he’s filth and doesn’t move out of his way. He steps around her, and then my father blocks his path. My father is slightly shorter than Braxton, but he oozes a cold sense of control. My skin prickles with the deadly intention in the air.
“Dad?” I say, grabbing his attention. His gaze grudgingly moves me, and I mouth, “Please.”
His eyebrows furrow slightly as if confused. Perhaps it’s because of the words that go unsaid. I’ve never begged my father for anything. But I’ve never had anything I’ve wanted to protect so badly besides my privacy. And I’m certain that, even if I haven’t said it out loud, that my father realizes I love Braxton. Even when I deny it, which I will. I’ll stand between them if he tries to hurt Braxton in any way.
That hits me with a terrifying force.
Oh, how far I’ve fallen.
I’m a disappointment.
My father takes a step to the left so Braxton can pass. When he crosses the threshold, he looks back at me, words unsaid, betrayal, and pain surfacing in his eyes. But what did he expect me to do? What was he about to say?
Anya walks over and slams the door in his face. It’s so loud that I grit my teeth instead of flinching as she turns around. “Seems we have a few things to discuss.”
My father starts looking around as if he’s about to discover something else that I’ve been hiding. When I look back to my aunty, she’s studying me as if she’s discovered something new and foreign.
“How long has this been going on for?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “And so help me, God, little one, if you don’t give us answers, we will kill him.”
“That’s not what we came here for,” Dad growls.
“Oh, come on now, don’t be so stiff, Aleksandr. I know you want to know, too,” she bites back at him. I can’t help but feel like I’m being circled by two sharks as I try to keep myself afloat in a tank full of blood.
“A few months,” I confess.
Her eyebrows rise. “My, my. We are good at keeping secrets, aren’t we?”
“He’s the detective from that night Charlotte stole the wallet,” Dad says as he stops at the piece I’m currently working on.
“Yes.”
“And he could ruin us. Could be using you,” he says, looking up at me. I know that look. It’s the one he gives every time he’s about to dispose of an immediate danger.
“Please don’t kill him. I—” The words cut off at my throat.
“You love him?” my aunt says condescendingly with a roll of her eyes. “Men come and go. There’s plenty for you out there. Don’t settle. Especially for one who isn’t rich.”
“I’m not like you, okay?!” I snap. And for the first time, my aunt looks like she might be… hurt isn’t the right word. I’m certain my aunt doesn’t even bleed. I adjust my glasses, wanting to hide behind them. But the part of me that Braxton has nurtured—that I’ve nurtured—rises up to challenge them. “I’m not like either of you.” In many ways. “You can’t tell me that it was all smooth sailing between you and River,” I say to Aunt Anya. I then look at my father. “Or you and Mom. You’ve said it yourself that you two come from different worlds, and yet, you make it work.”
“This is different, Hope,” my aunt argues, and my father simply stares at me as if seeing a side to me he’s never witnessed before. “You’re young, impressionable?—”
“I am my own woman!” I shout. “And I can’t live under the perfect little bubble you expect of me anymore.”
She’s taken aback, clicking her tongue. “No one has ever put expectations on you, little one, except for yourself. Don’t blame others for situations or routines you’re not yet brave enough to get out of yourself.”
It’s like a slap to the face.
“Enough,” Dad says. “We’ll discuss this at a later time. We came here for something else.”
“We’re not moving on from this discussion until both of you promise me you won’t touch him.” I raise my hand at my aunt and add, “Or order anyone else to touch him.”
They share a look, and my aunt tsks disapprovingly.
“For now,” Dad agrees, but it doesn’t give me any confidence in the matter.
Palpable tension fills the air and then shifts into something else. Something deadly as my aunt speaks. “We got a tip. A concerning one, to say the least.” She smiles. “You’ve become messy, Hope Ivanov.”
I look at my father in confusion. What the fuck are they talking about? “Tip?”
“Yes, you know that when bad things happen in the city, those things will, in some way or another, end up coming through us, correct?” Anya says, and my father watches me carefully.
“What are you talking about?” I’m so confused. Are they still referring to me and Braxton? That he and I are bad? I already knew that, but I didn’t think they knew that. I assumed I was doing a good job at hiding it all, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m doing this all wrong. I should’ve ended it with him because now I have my family standing here, and my father is looking at me like he hasn’t seen me before.
I don’t like it.
I love my family; I truly, deeply do. It’s one thing in this life that I know God gave me right. And I understand how completely fucked up that sounds to an average person, but who else has an aunty who would literally kill for them? Because I know for sure mine would.
“Hawke has been teaching you how to shoot,” Anya says.
I roll my eyes. “He told you?”
“No, of course, he didn’t. I worked that one out all on my own. He’s been miserable since Ford made his relationship with Billie official, so I’ve been keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid while he’s bored.”
“Does Mom know?” I ask my father. I don’t think me using a gun is worse than dating a detective. She specifically warned me off, but it feels like a mountain of crimes is piling up against me.
He shakes his head. “It’s best she doesn’t know about this. To protect her.”
My hands are clammy, and I wipe them on my overalls. What is he talking about? What’s going on that I’m not aware of? And why is it taking so long to get to the point? Is it the glass statues? Do they know about them?
“Are you… mad at me?” I ask my father.
“No,” he replies at the same time Anya says, “Disappointed.”
I wipe my hands again. I fucking hate how much weight that word holds. They’re disappointed in me. I’m successful. I tried to be the perfect daughter. I tried to push away all of these murky and ugly impulses. Yes, I may be fucking a detective, but I’m not in a relationship with him. I don’t tell him any secrets. Granted, he knows how I like to be fucked, and that’s probably a secret in and of itself. But disappointed? It hurts more than it should because, for the last four years, I feel like I’ve been fighting an upstream battle, and now I’m drowning.
“Can one of you tell me why you’re disappointed?” I snap. I’m sick of this game, sick of them trying to pry without giving too much away in case I confess to something more.
My aunty reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone. She swipes at the screen a few times as she walks over to me, her heels clicking on the floor, and then she turns her phone around and shows it to me. It’s a man with a green mohawk; he’s dead. I try my best not to give her any reaction because I know she’s watching my every move. My clever aunty is always assessing everything.
“It’s a dead man,” I say and meet her eyes.
“I always wondered about you. I assumed you’d end up more like your mother than your father. But it seems, for the first time in my life, I’m actually wrong. And you’re a combination of deadly as well as beautiful.”
“Hope,” Dad says nothing but my name, and everything feels like it’s going in slow motion. Fuck . They know.
They know.
They know.
They see me! The dark little voice in my head speaks with glee.
“You never wanted to share this with me?” he says.
Everything stops. My heart. The airflow in the room. My existence. Everything I’ve built on lies comes crashing around me, and a twisted sense of relief and freedom comes with it. My shackles feel like they’ve finally been removed.
Somehow, someway, they’ve discovered my dirtiest little secret. It could’ve been someone worse that caught me, I guess. I turn and walk to my closet, which houses a safe. I bend down and enter the code to unlock it. I grab out a knife, then I turn around and show it to them.
My father once owned this knife, and I stole it from his collection when I was thirteen but never used it until I was sixteen.
“Amazing, really,” my aunty says, clapping her hands excitedly.
“You should have told me,” Dad says in warning.
“I didn’t know I’d like it so much,” I confess. I’ve kept this secret for so long that when I finally chose to act on it, I wasn’t sure if I could ever share it with anyone close to me. Yes, my family are killers. But they usually kill because someone is threatening the family or their businesses. I kill for the absolute adrenaline rush it gives me. I like it. I like it about as much as I like art. Or when Braxton fucks me. The way he fucked me the other night is probably top-tier with how it feels when I take a life.
It might’ve started with a knife, but I’ve experimented since then, exploring all the ways a soul can leave the shell of a body.
“It’s perfect, really. No one would suspect you.” Anya takes the knife from me. “But this?” She waves the knife in front of me. “Holding on to things that could easily get you caught when you have a detective in your space is very fucking stupid. I want you to think better. I want you to never keep anything from any kill. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I say quietly, still in shock that they know my secret.
“How did you know it was me who killed the guy with the mohawk?” I ask, still trying to figure it out. Was I betrayed?
Anya clicks her tongue. “Well, having Ivy cover for you and tamper with the videos was an impressive feat; however, she still has much to learn if she’s to surpass her father. Will was able to recall the videos. You’re lucky it was at Lucy’s where Eli could get rid of the body.”
Ah. I hadn’t expected Ivy to see it. I’d kept it a secret for so long, and she was the first to stumble across my dirty secret. She was shocked but quick to offer a contingency plan, and her involvement definitely helped the aftermath to try and hide it from my family when I begged her not to tell anyone, so she one upped and decided to tamper with the remaining evidence. I didn’t think she’d accept this part of me so easily, and I was grateful because I couldn’t handle that kind of disgust from one of my best friends.
I don’t really know what I was thinking. Sometimes I go into a daze. My targets have always been men who have hurt women, but lately, my reasoning seems miscued. It’s felt like an avalanche, and my brain hurts from all the impulses to take more victims I’ve had to fight off.
“You’re the one who’s been leaving the bodies around the city for the past nine months, aren’t you?” Dad asks.
My mouth opens and then closes. At first, I was messy. I didn’t know how to hide a body. But then I realized I didn’t want to. I wanted them to be found. I wanted to be seen, as risky as that was. I wanted my art to be discovered. I nod, except for the two men. I don’t know who took them out, but I’m certainly not strong enough to physically overpower them, and it insults me that the media have placed them into my serial killer count.
My father sighs, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t know how I didn’t notice.”
“It isn’t your fault that I’m like this.”
“ This ?” My aunt quickly grabs both of my shoulders. “No, no. We don’t look at this like it is something ugly. You embrace this part of yourself, Hope Ivanov. Do you hear me? This thing inside you?” She places her hand on my heart, and my breath shudders, as if her every word is something I’ve been waiting to hear my entire life. “This thing inside you is powerful. Deadly. Beautiful. We do not forsake the parts of us that come naturally. Have you ever judged us for killing?”
“No,” I whisper. Because the truth is, I haven’t. “But Mom…”
I wanted to be perfect for her. She tried so hard to keep me away from all of this. She’d be disappointed in me, maybe even hate me, for becoming this sick, twisted little thing.
“Don’t worry about your mother,” Dad reassures me as he pulls me in for a hug. I’m surprised at the action but wrap my arms around him, not knowing how badly I needed this… acceptance. “Your mother learned to love me even with my misdeeds. She’ll just have to adapt.”
“Gah.” Anya throws her hands in the air. “There are no misdeeds in this. We take what we want when we want. That is what it is to have Ivanov blood. We just need to sharpen your fangs, little one. And no more leaving around trophies for others to see. If you’re proud of your kill, send a photo to me or something if it’s praise you need.”
I chuckle, but tears well in my eyes. I pull away from my father to adjust my glasses. This is so stupid. So strange that being caught as a killer by my family has relieved me in a way I thought wasn’t possible.
“I’m just sad you felt like you couldn’t tell us. If I’d known you wanted to kill people, I would’ve taken you out myself. We could’ve created a hunting ground or something. Ooh, perhaps we should create auctions like that for the rich. My niece, you’re brilliant!” she says, inspiration lighting her eyes as she places the knife in her purse.
“How does it make you feel when you take a life?” Dad asks carefully.
My eyebrows furrow, and I lick my lips. A buzz of energy rushes over me as I recall every kill.
It’s beautiful.
Magical.
Life and death.
In the moment I take a life, I feel something besides the adrenaline, besides the acute, heightened senses. I feel like I’m connected to everything and every color. The world becomes my canvas.
“I like it… a lot.”
“More than this?” He waves a hand around the room, and I can only nod. Because I feel like without one, I would no longer have the muse to do the other.
They are both part of who I am.
“Something doesn’t make sense, though. Your pattern, or the serial killer’s. The strangling of one of the victims and the broken neck of another. You’re five foot nothing, so how did you pull that off?” Anya asks me.
I click my tongue and look away, furious. Those two kills tarnished my legacy. “They weren’t my kills. And it kind of pisses me off they’re assumed to be my victims. But it’s not like I can correct the police or the media.”
Anya laughs. “My, my. What a little ego. We definitely have to work on that because it will be your undoing, and you’ll get caught.”
“But you’ll bail me out, right?” I ask, batting my lashes.
She smiles in return. “I knew you were my favorite niece for a reason.”
“I’m your only niece,” I remind her as she pulls me in for a hug.
My father huffs, acting annoyed by our camaraderie. But deep down, I can see the twinkle in his eyes. The approval. The quiet confidence and pride. He might not ever say it out loud, especially in front of my mother, but I feel it. And I feel whole. Finally.
“We won’t share this with your mother just yet,” he says.
“Do we have to tell her?” I ask, and he pins me with a glare. It would be easier if we didn’t. I don’t like lying to her, but I don’t think she’ll be as accepting as they are.
“Your mother loves you. She’ll just need time to adjust. It will eat at her, knowing there is something in your life you can’t trust her with,” he says. “If she can love a monster like me, let me assure you, she will love her only child.” I want to cry all over again. My father is a man of few words, but when he does speak, it’s with confidence and conviction. “However, the next time you have the urge to kill someone, you will be calling me. Do you understand?”
I nod, trying not to smile.
“And me,” Anya adds with a smirk. I’m not sure why I would call either of them; it’s something I enjoy doing alone. But their moral support is nice.
“Anything else we should know about?” Dad asks.
I bite my bottom lip. I think about the glass sculptures, but that feels like mine and Braxton’s secret. And if I tell them about them, they’ll storm his place immediately to get rid of the evidence. But selfishly, I want him to have those.
“Nope,” I lie.
My father stares at me skeptically, and I’m certain he knows I’m lying.
“I have to work now,” I tell them, trying to usher them out.
“You know, if you came under our employment, you could get paid for killing,” my aunt says.
“No. She’ll focus on her sculptures,” Dad bites back.
Anya shrugs. “Why? Killing pays more.”
I try not to laugh, but then I sober when my father turns before closing the door and says, “Hope, stop talking to that detective. I mean it.” And then he closes the door behind them.
My heart drops, and all of my fluttery excitement is short-lived as another burden weighs on me.
Braxton.
He’s either a liability or the love of my life.
How could someone in his position ever love a monster like me?
But deep down, I hope there’s a sliver of a chance that he can embrace and accept me.
Even without my father’s warnings, I know that’s a pipe dream.
My back hits the door, and I slide down to the floor, running my filthy hands through my hair, as I once again conclude the only ending we’ll ever have…is with his death.
So how do I kill the only man I’ve ever loved?
Maybe the “how” no longer matters. This is all about self-preservation, so the only factor I need to focus on now…is when .