31. Venetia
Flashback
Age 16
I feel weirder every morning when I wake up. This time, bruises cover my thighs and arms, and I’m sore—so sore that I can hardly move my legs. Today is important, just like most days, and I can’t allow myself to rest, but it hurts so much that I can barely move.
I’m officially a part of Zayden’s business, and he drags me along with him—not because he trusts me with his work, but because I’m merely a showpiece, a doll dressed in pretty clothes and adorned with shiny diamonds around my neck. My father keeps reminding me to listen closely. He emphasizes how crucial it is to remember every detail from the meetings. I don’t know why he insists on this—he never bothers to enlighten me about the specifics—but I do it anyway.
However, with each passing day, my memory seems to worsen, as if my brain is playing tricks on me, setting obstacles in my path, just waiting for me to trip and fall. Nobody believes me when I tell them I forget things—not my mom, nor my dad. Zayden is the only one who lets it slide, no matter how much it annoys him. I can see the reaction in his body, the flash of irritation in his eyes when I admit I’ve forgotten something again, but he never yells at me.
Not like my parents do.
“I don’t feel well today,” I say quietly, pressing my hand against my lower stomach. “Can I stay in bed, please?”
Zayden pauses in his task of adjusting his tie, our eyes meeting in the mirror’s reflection. “You know the answer to that, Venetia,” he grumbles. “Today is important.”
“Like every single day,” I mumble under my breath, bowing my head.
“What did you say?”
A shudder races through my body as a wave of dread washes over me, cold and suffocating. A sharp pain pierces my lower stomach, prompting me to squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to ease it, my grip tightening on my skin. “Sorry,” I rasp. “I just... I feel nauseous, and my head is a little dizzy.”
He raises his hands in exasperation, a shrug rippling through his shoulders. “Then go take some pills or whatever’s in the med kit in the bathroom.” He clicks his tongue in irritation, yanking at the tie that hangs half-tied around his neck. “Why am I explaining this to you? You should know this by now.”
I rise from the bed, and despite the burning discomfort, close the distance between us, my hands moving to help him with his tie. “I feel like it’s a different kind of issue, Zayden,” I mumble, embarrassed to admit this. “There’s pain in my lower stomach, and it’s making me dizzy and nauseous.”
He frowns in confusion, and a moment passes before skepticism twists his expression. “You can’t be pregnant. We—” He pauses, clearly caught off guard. “I use protection all the time. And as far as I remember, you were on the pill, right?”
“Yeah, but—” I trail off, adding the finishing touches to his tie. “I’m taking too many meds. I don’t think that’s good for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I doubt you want to get pregnant,” he cuts in, annoyance dripping from his words. “Is that all? Because we’re already late.”
“Zayden, there are bruises on my skin,” I blurt out, tired of swallowing my worries. They’ve built up inside me into a hot, coiling ball of emotion. I can’t stay silent anymore. His friends are coming over more frequently now, and everything becomes a blur for me in those moments. A blur I can’t seem to shake off.
“And?” he asks, tilting his head. He genuinely doesn’t seem to understand what I’m hinting at, or maybe he’s pretending not to. “You kick in your sleep a lot, baby. Maybe you’ve just hit yourself.”
“I always feel so sore,” I continue, a tremor running through my lip as I feel myself unraveling. My breathing quickens, and my emotions start to take over. It’s frustrating that after all this time, I still can’t control them. They overpower me to the point that I can’t finish my thoughts. More often than not, I’m so consumed by emotion that I forget what I am going to say.
That’s why no one believes me.
“Are you accusing me of something, Venetia?” Zayden asks, his hands moving to my shoulders and giving me a slight squeeze. “Are you implying that I or my friends did something to you?”
I never said that. He’s getting defensive again, and I feel ashamed for bringing it up, but I can’t remain silent any longer. I want him to understand, to help me.
But he doesn’t.
“No, no, I just ? —”
“You don’t trust me?” he snaps, his grip on my shoulders tightening, and a cold wave of dread crashes over me. My stomach knots painfully, and a lump in my throat cuts off my air. “How many times do I have to repeat that you’re safe with me?”
That’s the thing—he doesn’t need to keep saying it. One action would suffice. It would prove his words, and I wouldn’t feel so paranoid all the time.
But he just… says a lot without doing anything.
“Let me go, Zayden,” I plead, my hands gripping his arms as I struggle to free myself. “You’re scaring me.”
“I’m scaring you?” Laughing, he squeezes harder, and a sharp pain shoots through me, causing tears to blur my vision. “Well, if you want to see me as a big, scary monster, maybe I should act the part?”
In the blink of an eye, he whirls me around and forces me into the wall. The thud of my back hitting it sends a ripple of tingles over my skin. My mouth opens in a soundless scream, black spots flickering at the edges of my vision, and a soft ringing fills the air around me.
The sound of him storming out echoes through the room as he slams the door, leaving me to face my demons alone once again. I wait for him to come back, to offer his usual apology, but he doesn’t return.
Not after five minutes. Not after an hour.
“Now, I want you to be honest with me, Venetia,” the doctor says, removing his glasses and locking eyes with me. “Do you take any drugs?”
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, but because 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 shut the 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.
He won’t like seeing me like this. He’ll call me weak and grumble about how I need to hold it together, just like always.
I climb the stairs, my sniffs betraying the turmoil within. I had hoped—prayed to every god I could think of—that no one would be home when I returned, but of course, my prayers went unanswered. I can never find a moment of peace.
Not in this house.
I quicken my pace, the sound of his voice growing nearer and more frantic. As I pull open the bathroom door, I step inside and lock it behind me. I shut my eyes, letting the illusion of solitude take me away for a brief moment.
A strange sense of peace envelops me like a heavy cloud, providing a false sense of calm and warmth. I swallow the thick lump in my throat and step away from the door, knowing it will take him a while to break through.
For now, I can have a moment alone.
I turn my face toward the mirror and take a few tentative steps forward, feeling my knees buckle under an unseen weight. My eyes trace the outline of my face as I turn it to the side, drawing a path with my finger. Slowly, I move it up, following the contours of my cheek, my nose, and back to my chin, smudging the foundation in the process. Beads of sweat trickle down my forehead, washing away the thin layer of powder I applied earlier.
His fists beat relentlessly on the door, sending shockwaves through my body, but I ignore them. The doctor’s words echo in my mind like a broken record, replaying everything he said over and over, as if I haven’t already endured enough pain in his office. The disgust etched on his face, the tone of his voice as he spoke about me…
Disgust. Disgust. Disgust.
All my confusion, anger, and sadness seem to vanish without a trace, replaced solely by this emotion. It roots itself deep inside me, wrapping tightly around my organs like a vile ivy, seeping poison into my system.
I tilt my head from side to side, searching for something I will never find—a glimpse of beauty, a tiny sign that maybe, just maybe, I can be fixed, and that I might stop feeling this way. But it’s absurd to even try. No matter how much makeup I apply, how much time I spend styling my hair, or how carefully I pick my outfits, I will never feel pretty. I seem to have a talent for making things worse, turning myself ugly not only on the outside but on the inside as well.
I’ve allowed this to bend and break me, and I fear it can never be fixed. I feel weak, incapable of finding my voice or standing out in any way. It feels like I was born by mistake. I know how selfish it is to think about ending my life, especially when so many people fight for every breath, those who desperately want to live.
But it doesn’t stop me from thinking about it.
I raise my hands and look at the dried blood around my nails. Even gloves can’t shield me now. The pain I’ve inflicted on my skin can never be concealed, not even by the thickest layer of fabric.
The sound of the door handle jiggling is the only thing anchoring me to this world. I close my eyes, hoping to let my mind wander, but the noise prevents me from doing so.
I can feel the cracks in my thick wall of resistance. Hot tears seep through my lashes, trailing long streaks down my cheeks. I reach up to wipe my eyes, only to smudge my mascara, making myself look even scarier than I already am. It feels like the real me is pushing through. I gaze at my reflection, watching as the disgust and anger toward who I’ve become grow thicker, overtaking everything I have left.
Adrenaline floods my system, making my breath shallow and rapid. I strike the mirror with my fist, and it shatters into countless jagged pieces. Pain shoots through my knuckles, but I don’t stop—my fist continues to collide with the fragments of my reflection, splitting it into more ragged shards.
Blood drips down my arms, and when I look at my hand, I notice a shard lodged deep in my palm, its edges cutting into my skin. More blood pools, and I find myself captivated by the sight. The sharp metallic scent blends with sweat and the faint remnants of my perfume, creating a dizzying, suffocating stench.
The door begins to give way as Dad slams something hard into it, and I know I don’t have much time. I need to tell him that everything is fine. He needs to see the happy version of me—the one he wants to see.
Me with a wide smile on my face.
Dropping the shard of glass to the floor, I bring my blood-soaked fingers to my mouth. I press the tips against the corner of my lips, dragging two fingers up to my cheek and drawing a deep red line. Once I’m sure it looks convincing, I move to the other corner and repeat the action.
Just as I finish, Dad bursts through the door, sending a cloud of dust swirling in the air. He’s panting, but as soon as our eyes meet, he stops breathing entirely, his mouth hanging open in shock.
“Don’t worry,” I say, holding a smile. “I’m happy, Dad.”