48. West
A fleeting moment of carefree happiness precedes the crash that devours the soul, leaving behind a hollow void. That’s what drugs feel like. Each time I indulge, the amount I need to snort or swallow multiplies, never enough to satisfy the growing demand. I find myself increasing my dose just to feel the same high my body has come to expect.
This time, the euphoria was overwhelming—just like always. For a brief moment, I soared to fucking heaven. But that’s where the trick lies—a person like me was never meant to linger in such a place. I don’t feel at home in heaven. My soul is drawn to hell’s flames.
The impact of the crash was stronger this time. For a brief moment, I felt like I could do anything. I stopped thinking, stopped breathing, surrendering to the chemicals as they rewired my brain. Then, without warning, I was slammed back into reality from my high, feeling every single inch of the descent.
It’s been a week since I returned to Venetia. A whole week since I last allowed any chemicals into my system. The acid I took had fucked me up so severely—mentally and physically—that I thought I wouldn’t come back from it. The hallucinations blurred the lines between reality and fantasy, making me believe that all the deaths from my nightmares had come to life.
It was a fucking miracle that I remembered how to get back here.
I scared the shit out of Venetia. Despite her understanding and support, I can’t shake off the embarrassment. Strangely, I remember every single word I told her—about the flying dead people in the room and much more nonsense. The time I had the energy to speak was spent apologizing, and she always responded with the same calming reassurance. She never looked ashamed or angry with me. She was scared, yes, but that was all.
Today marks the first day I’m feeling something other than shame, disgust, and agony. It’s the first day I can move a little easier, and the first day she doesn’t have to remind me how to breathe, or else I start choking for no reason.
As selfish as it may sound, I’m grateful Venetia was with me the entire time. Whenever I felt myself slipping back into the void, she was there, bathing me in the warmth of her touch. My ears were always filled with a faint ringing, making it hard to hear clearly, but I was aware enough to catch her voice. The words she whispered convinced me that I was safe, that I was okay.
Not for a single moment did she let me feel alone. Her body was pressed against mine the entire time, and she never pulled away when I twitched and turned from the fever that overtook me. Even while I was asleep for short periods, she went out to buy food, always patient and never angry when I refused to eat.
No matter how much pain I felt, it seemed like I finally found a sense of home. Peaceful and cozy, right here in her presence.
It’s late evening, and the room is cloaked in darkness, except for the glow of the TV illuminating our bed. She turned it on about an hour ago, and we’ve been watching in silence ever since. It’s the same show I found the night before I left her. I doubt there are any other shows on this old piece of shit, so it seems like our only option.
“That’s such a dumb fucking show.” I clear my throat, the rasp of my voice breaking the silence that’s stretched too long. “Bad acting, unrealistic script, and terrible cinematography.”
She snorts and shifts into a more comfortable position, lifting her face from the pillow and pressing her cheek against my chest. “It looks like they’re having fun,” she replies, and I close my eyes, pressing my lips to the top of her head. “I wonder what the budget is. Some of the places they’re filming in look pretty cheap.”
“Twenty bucks and a bottle of vodka is the budget,” I say flatly, and when she laughs, I look down, trying to catch that beautiful smile. It feels like an eternity since I’ve heard her genuine laughter or seen her smile. “I mean, it looks like it.”
“You’re so harsh sometimes.”
“I’m just being honest.”
With a sigh, Venetia grabs the remote and presses the red button. Darkness rushes in, and an unsettling wave of discomfort washes over me as I realize I can no longer see her. The room is silent, save for the distant murmur of the street—people shouting, cars honking—a symphony that feels worlds away from the stillness we’ve managed to carve out.
The same chaos awaits us at home, a storm that will descend upon us the moment we return. I can only imagine how mad our fathers must be. Venetia has already been gone for three weeks, while I have only been here for one. I doubt either of them worries about us the way normal parents would—about our safety or anything like that. They’re probably more concerned about the meetings we’ve missed and the public opinion they’ve been desperately trying to manage.
“I wish we could stay like this forever.”
For a moment, her body freezes, and I can just make out the contour of her perfect face as she raises her head. “You mean, in a crummy motel, both of us sweaty, dirty, and exhausted?”
I choke out a laugh, a flicker of amusement cutting through me. “Would it sound like a cheesy cliché if I said yes? I don’t need a comfortable place to feel good with you.”
She takes a moment to think, her white teeth gleaming in the dark. “A little, yeah.”
My laughter grows louder, and she sits up, unable to rest on me as my chest shakes. “What I mean is—” I trail off, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know. I always thought taking time to just be together, to do nothing, didn’t make sense. I thought it was just a way to avoid the obvious.”
“But?” she prompts.
I pause for a moment. “But with you, it feels good. Comfortable. Just… being here, together. Taking time to recover.”
Her silence hangs in the air, but I sense her gaze cutting through the darkness, probing me.
“Sorry. I guess this was pretty terrible for you,” I say, trying to shift the atmosphere by awkwardly infusing humor into my tone. “You don’t have to feel the same way I do.”
“I feel a lot,” she replies calmly. “But not terrible. I just—” She lets out a shaky breath, her head drooping. “I don’t trust either of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m an addict, too.” She scratches her head, a fidgety movement betraying her unease. “I understand you, West. That’s why I know I can’t trust you. I’ve never trusted myself—my addiction always took control. We’re both unreliable. Bad for each other.”
“I know what you mean,” I say. She’s right, and the truth stings more than I care to admit, especially knowing I’d rather fucking die than stay away from her.
“I don’t know what to do,” she murmurs, shaking her head slowly, her voice dipping an octave. “I don’t… I don’t know, West.”
Reaching out, I take her hands in mine, gently guiding her onto me. She scoots closer, shifting into my lap, her arms curling around my waist like roots anchoring themselves—a gesture I’ve noticed she adores. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d try harder.” I weave my fingers into her hair, matching the soothing touch she’s been giving me all week, feeling her relax with every movement. “I don’t know how to be good, baby girl. I’ve never tried. But I don’t want to keep fucking this up.”
“I don’t want to hurt anymore.” She rubs her cheek against my chest, adjusting into a more comfortable position. “You’ve hurt me, West. We’ve both hurt each other for years—that’s what we do. With you, it feels like I’m trapped in a vast, suffocating space with no way to breathe.”
“I’m—”
“I don’t want your apologies,” she cuts in. “I just want to stop hurting. That’s all that’s ever happened in my life, and I’m tired.”
“What if I told you I want nothing more than to make you happy?”
She pauses to think. “You’re so stubborn,” she says finally, a hint of amusement in her voice. “And insane.”
“I’m obsessed,” I correct. “I won’t sugarcoat who I am. You know that better than anyone. But if I say I want this, I mean it, Venetia.”
“And what exactly do you want?” she probes.
“A relationship with you. Stable and?—”
“Healthy?” she chuckles. “That would be impossible.”
“I won’t lie to you like that,” I reply, a smirk in my voice. “I’ve never had a normal relationship with anyone. I’m fucked up as it is and have already ruined whatever purity could’ve blossomed between us. We may never be healthy, but I’m okay with that. I think you are too.”
“I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone, West. I’ve been through a lot. When I felt the slightest hint of something that resembled love, it wilted and was crushed under his foot. He’s the reason for these episodes. Sometimes, they engulf me, leaving me unable to get out of bed for weeks.”
I don’t need to be a genius to figure out who she’s talking about. Everyone knew what kind of person Zayden was after he died—it was the news nobody could stop discussing. He was evil disguised as a charming facade, and I can only imagine what he put Venetia through.
“But I don’t want to talk about it,” she interrupts, attempting to get up, but I tighten my grip, refusing to let her go. “I just... I?—”
“Scared the story will repeat itself?”
She hesitates for a moment longer, then sinks back into me, letting her muscles relax. “You’re nothing like him. I know you won’t do the things he did to me. It’s not about that,” she says. “It’s just that… He turned me into a monster, West. I did things I can’t tell you about—things nobody knows. I’m fucked up because of him, and I can’t ever be the person I wanted to be. If I become obsessed—the only feeling I have in my heart—I lose all boundaries. I will do things I shouldn’t, and I don’t think you’ll like that.”
I think I understand what she means, yet part of me struggles to believe her words. It feels like she mirrors my own experiences. I’ve never truly felt love; it was crushed as soon as it emerged in my youth. Since then, I haven’t been able to feel anything close to it.
Until Venetia. Pure, psychotic obsession. It’s all I feel toward her—a fire so intense, I doubt it can ever be tamed.
“Whatever you did in the past,” I begin, sensing a slight tremor running through her body, “and whatever you’re not ready to share, it doesn’t make you a monster.”
“You don’t understand?—”
“I do. I’ve killed a lot of people in my life, Netia. Framed and tortured many, too. Trust me when I say you’re not a monster. I would know if I saw one.”
A quiet pause stretches between us, a rare moment of calm where my focus is locked on her erratic breathing. She pulls at my T-shirt, letting out a sniffle.
“Before Zayden died, I spent years living in the same condition you found me in,” she murmurs. “Everyone called me lazy, ungrateful. I spent so long believing I didn’t matter, like I was just another problem. But no matter what, I couldn’t stop feeling that way. So... empty .”
“How often do these episodes happen?” I ask, trying to sound calm, even though I’m walking on eggshells. She’s opening up to me, and I don’t want to make things worse. Every question feels like it could trigger something, but I know I need to ask them to help her.
“I became addicted to Xanax, and it helped at first,” she confesses. “But then, it wasn’t enough. I needed more. That scared me, but when we started working together and being in your presence, I was able to push it out of my mind for a while. The toxicity between us kept my focus, and it felt like I was getting better. In a strange way, it felt okay.”
“I’m sorry for what I did,” I blurt out, my voice breaking. “It’s all my fault.”
“No,” she argues. “It’s not. My mind is a fucked-up place, West. It always has been. I’m telling you, I’ve lived like this for years. It never got any better. When I’m in these episodes, I can’t get out of bed, I can’t bring myself to eat. Sleep’s a gift—if it comes.”
“Will you let me take care of you?”
“I’m not sure it’ll ever go away completely,” she admits, her voice fragile. “It’s like I’m doomed to live through these dark moments over and over, only able to quiet my mind with anger for a little while. I don’t know if I’ll ever be free, West. I don’t know if I’ll hurt you again. I’m rotten. Ugly inside.”
“You’re angry because you’re in pain. You lash out to protect the raw wounds, unwilling to let anyone get too close. You shut yourself off, pushing people away, terrified of being hurt again. Me? I’m the same. But even in my own suffering, I promise you—I will never cause you the harm they did.” I pause, nuzzling my nose into her soft hair. “You see the ugliness and rottenness. I see a fierce, beautiful soul fighting against things that would break most people.”
She freezes, letting my words sink in. I mean every single one of them, and even if she can’t believe me now, I’ll do whatever it takes to guide her out of the shadows she’s been trapped in.
“I’ve said a lot of things about you,” she begins, “but I don’t think you’re evil. Not anymore.”
A tremor runs through me, a silent earthquake triggered by her words. While I don’t think I will ever stop feeling like this, right now, her words push my father’s voice to the back of my mind, letting me—even for a moment—feel I’m not so bad after all.
Seizing the moment while I’m distracted, she quickly moves to the other side of the bed. I shake off my confusion, trying to make sense of what she’s looking for in the dark when she comes back, something in her hands.
“We never celebrated your birthday,” she whispers, propping herself up on her elbow beside me.
A frown creases my brow. “What?”
“Your birthday. It was seven days ago.”
Was it? “I don’t remember such things,” I reply, realizing how foolish I sound. What kind of person forgets their fucking birthday?
I can feel her gaze on me before she jabs her elbow into my side, an awkward chuckle rumbling in her chest. “Oh, really? Isn’t that because you’re an old man already?”
My brows shoot up in amusement. “Old? Who are you calling old, baby girl? I may be older, but I’m not too old.”
“You’re thirty already.” She leans closer, dragging out the word, ‘Thir-ty,’ in a mocking tone, and I can’t help but burst into uncontrollable laughter that shakes my chest.
“I didn’t have the money to buy you something nice,” she says, a hint of worry wrapping around her voice, which pulls a smile from me for reasons I can’t quite grasp. “And it won’t be exactly a gift, but—” she trails off, fidgeting with something in her hands.
It’s too dark to see what it is, and no matter how much I squint, I can’t make it out. But when she turns it on and the screen flashes bright white, I stop breathing.
“I wanted to show it to you earlier, but you were sleeping so deeply that I didn’t want to wake you,” she explains, her fingers navigating the buttons on the old, worn-out music player as she opens the folder with the songs.
I had the exact same one when I was younger, though it was black, and hers is white. “Sometimes, when everything gets to be too much, I fall asleep with my music on. There are mostly old songs here—some classic late ‘90s and early 2000s hits... I don’t know. It probably seems stupid, but I thought maybe we could fall asleep to music? Because I feel that?—”
I can’t help myself as I lean in and silence her with a kiss. She’s momentarily stunned, but after a second, she meets me in the middle. I weave my fingers through her hair and tilt her head back, pouring every ounce of my strength and passion into this kiss, as if my life depends on it.
Well, in a way, it does right now.
Her body tenses, a coiled spring ready to snap. I recognize the signal and reluctantly pull back, resting my forehead against hers for a brief moment before breaking away.
“Is that a yes?” she asks breathlessly, and I can’t help but chuckle at the innocence in her voice.
I settle onto my elbow, mirroring her posture as I grab one of the headphones, plug it into my ear, and then plop my head onto the pillow. “That’s a yes, fucking please.”
She giggles as she plugs in her piece and selects the first song on her playlist. Then, she shuts off the player, plunging us back into darkness, and lies her head on the pillow.
The opening notes of the song begin to play, and I close my eyes, feeling a sense of peace I haven’t experienced in years.