40. West
A nother 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’s the 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.”
The words hang heavy in the air, a shroud of suspicion that smothers me. I feel a familiar chill, like a cold wind sweeping through the ruins of my past. This eavesdropping reminds me of my school days before Dad forced me to drop out, claiming, and I quote, ‘ An idiot like you doesn’t need school. It won’t help you at this point .’
I know it’s ridiculous to compare the present to the past like this, but my brain doesn’t ask for permission—it just spreads this unsettling feeling, erasing any positivity I’ve managed to build up.
“I was a bit concerned about how you’d accept this,” Venetia says, her nails clicking against something that sounds like glass. “I mean, you liked him, while I never did, and here I am, engaged to him.”
Laughter erupts. “It’s not like you chose this, so I can’t be mad at you, Venetia. I’m not a child. Honestly, I think I’m moving on from it. The guy you saw me with at the party…” She trails off, clicking her tongue. “His name’s Oliver. He’s an idiot, but the good kind. Though don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling jealous. I mean, it’s West fucking Reyes we’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on,” Netia says nonchalantly. “There’s nothing to be jealous of.” I lean my shoulder against the wall, prepared to listen further. There’s an edge to her voice that I don’t like.
“What do you mean?” her friend probes. “Are you saying it isn’t as big as I thought?”
“I’m not discussing this with you, Grace. But I’ll say this—it’s the best part of him. The one that makes him bearable .”
I try to convince myself it isn’t what I think it is, but then Grace’s laughter explodes in sudden, cruel confirmation. The ache in my chest deepens, a heavy weight settling back in my stomach, and I can’t swallow, my throat choked with a nameless emotion.
“Stop it. You’re being too harsh. He’s nothing like Zayden. You don’t always have to bite and hurt him because of your past, babe. That’s not fair.”
Venetia sighs and takes a long pause. “I’m not even thinking about Zayden anymore, Grace. I’ve moved on. You know I’ve always hated West. What do you want me to say?” She chuckles. “It is what it is. The sex is good, but that’s all. All the pros end there. He’s already too much, following me around all the time, so I have to sneak out just to have a chat with you. At the end of the day, I don’t want to pick up his pieces or wipe his nose clean of coke and snot. I don’t care. He means nothing to me.”
I have to stifle a laugh at how familiar this all sounds. It’s fucking comical. The story keeps repeating itself, as if the universe is determined to keep me from glimpsing anything positive, dragging me back into misery every time I try to crawl out.
She’s drunk and doesn’t mean what she’s saying. You hurt her too when you were high, and it didn’t matter.
No, that’s not true. I never said anything like the shit she’s saying now. I still remember when she said she’d find a way to hurt me—not physically, but emotionally.
And she did.
Fucking mocking me behind my back after everything that happened between us? That’s too much, even for her.
My dad warned me about this. He always said I can’t be loved or even liked. To most people, I’m a walking contradiction, a broken record that plays the same song of self-destruction. To those who are supposed to be closest to me, like my father or my fiancée, I’m nothing but a pathetic, weak junkie, unworthy of their company. An annoying presence that feels like too much—the one without whom their lives would be so much better.
I’ll never be more than that. I guess it’s time to finally accept it. The world has proven too much—too fickle, too quick to betray. But there is still one thing, one unyielding presence, that has never failed me. The sanctuary from the storm.
The only drug that truly matters from now on.