42. Venetia
I knew my father would call me weak and pathetic if I shared the reason for my escape. He would roll his eyes and tell me to get a grip before locking me in my room, leaving me with no way out. So, I left without telling him, taking only my music player and a handful of cash. I didn’t even grab my toothbrush.
I think I just forgot.
Fearing he might find me by tracking down and questioning the taxi driver, I walked miles on foot to reach my current destination—a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city. It’s an area I’ve never ventured into before, filled with junkies, aggressive homeless people, and alcoholics wandering the streets, begging for money, a drink, or a dose.
This place reeks of unsanitary conditions and strange odors—an atmosphere I’d never choose for myself, even for all the money in the world. But now, I couldn’t care less. Here, nobody would think to look for me. A person like me—a wealthy, decent-looking woman—would never have any business in a place like this.
I’ve been here for some time, and after languishing within these four walls, I’m unsure if I’ll ever get better. I’ve pulled the thick black curtains closed, shielding myself from the itchy, restless sensation that sunlight brings. Darkness envelops me like a comforting blanket.
I can’t even tell if it’s day or night. There’s no clock, and I don’t have a watch or a phone. It feels like I’ve been here a week and a half, but maybe, just maybe, it’s been even longer.
I can’t feel my face. Every time I try to move my lips, I sense the strain of my skin and the tightness pulling at it. The tears that leak uncontrollably from my eyes provide brief relief, dissolving the tension, only to intensify it as soon as they dry out. It feels like a mask ingrained within me, and I can’t remove it.
I feel empty, both physically and mentally. The only food I’ve consumed since arriving here is a pack of cookies and cream yogurt—the only item in this place that hasn’t made me want to vomit. But that’s gone now, and I can’t muster the strength to get up, go downstairs, and fetch something from the café. Moving even a little feels impossible, and walking down the stairs seems like a daunting task.
My stomach aches from hunger and something else I can’t quite identify. Perhaps I’m hallucinating at this point, but it feels like period cramps. I can’t remember when my period is supposed to start, so I’m unsure if that’s what this is. I do feel something hot and sticky staining my inner thighs, but I can’t bring myself to look.
That would require too much effort.
I know my period is the worst time of the month for me. The cramps are so excruciating that I can hardly breathe, let alone think clearly. Usually, I’d take strong painkillers to help, but I don’t have any here.
Going down to buy some isn’t an option. I’m paralyzed on the bed, my knees pressed against my chest, face down, trying not to breathe in the smell of the sheets too often. They don’t seem to use the best washing powder here, if they use any at all.
I’ve had days like this before—back when I was with Zayden, right around the time he began bringing his friends around. They drugged me to the point where it felt like my heart would stop in my chest. I still don’t understand how my body survived the onslaught of shit they gave me.
After their visits, I couldn’t get out of bed for days. The physical pain was a searing fire, but the shame burned deeper, an icy ache that refused to let go. The memory of their touch arrived with the dawn. I was sore. My limbs and neck were covered in bruises, and there were red spots all over my body—some unmistakable hickeys, while others were just strange marks. I still don’t know what they did to me to leave those behind.
Over time, things improved, especially after Zayden died and my dad and I took over the business. It felt like I finally had some control over my life.
Until now. I thought everything was over for me when West entered the picture, only to realize how good he actually made me feel. Zayden was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He made me fall for the nice version of himself, only to reveal his true colors when there was no chance of escape. West, on the other hand, has never pretended with me. We despised each other equally, yet somehow we found a way to function without tearing each other apart. Then, something shifted. I don’t know how or why, but it did, and I began to see something in him beyond the pure evil I thought he was.
I saw a reflection of myself. And I’m sure he saw that too, because pain recognizes pain.
But I got scared and ruined it. I tried to distance myself from him and hurt him in the worst way possible, only for him to return the pain tenfold. I know I deserve it, though.
For a brief, shining moment, I felt a glimmer of joy, but the darkness within me, a constant companion, quickly consumed it, leaving only the familiar sting of self-loathing. He gave me everything I thought I wanted—the freedom I craved.
But I don’t feel the way I thought I would.
He won’t come back for me—not after what I did to him. If I had said something like this at the beginning, he would have bitten back with laughter, and everything would have returned to normal. But time has passed, and he began to reveal a side of himself I never knew existed. I saw how much of a giver he can be, and how deeply he can care, even if he pretends otherwise.
We started something new, and I fucking ruined it. He sent flowers to my doorstep in the morning, and I didn’t even thank him. I left him alone and talked trash behind his back.
Why? Because I got fucking scared. Scared of trusting my world to a man. Scared of him tricking me and hurting me in the end, like everyone else in my life did.
I never claimed to be sane. I’ve done terrible things for my own sake, but out of everything, what I did to West makes me feel most disgusted with myself—so disgusted that I believe I don’t deserve anything more than this cheap room, this dirty environment, and the lack of food. I haven’t even showered once.
Right now, I’m as pathetic as I’ve always been. The insides have surfaced outside.
The pain is a white-hot inferno, searing my flesh and my mind—a relentless beast that feeds on my guilt, keeping me tethered to this dark, endless loop of anguish. Sleep is a mirage, forever out of reach.
Everything hurts.
And it’s so cold here.
But I can’t bring myself to get up from the fucking bed.
I just can’t get up.
My only hope is that maybe the universe will take pity on me, and I’ll eventually die from the agony I’m enduring—right here, on this bed, covered in sweat, grime, and blood.
I’ll just die, and all my problems will be solved. And West will find someone who can give him the love he needs.