9. Saint
Saint
A chair cracks as it hits the wall, scattering the floor with chunks of wood. My father jumps back, shielding Theory from the sharp pieces that land at their feet.
You’re nothing…a n unseen Vicious mocks me through a cruel laugh. A weak piece of shit .
A guttural roar breaks past my throat as I pick up the lamp next to the bed, sending it flying and crashing in the direction of his voice.
I look down, the blood of Lance still staining my hands.
So sad and pathetic...
“I hate you, I hate you, I fucking hate you!” My nails scrape the sides of my face repeatedly, until drops of fresh blood trickle to my lips.
You had one job, Saint Matthias.
“No more jobs…” I scream, body shaking, once again allowing my monster to drag me down. “You. I want you…to just go and die. Fucking die!” My words turn into a distorted mess of sobs as I rock back and forth, ripping strands of hair from my skull.
“Big b-bro…” Theory approaches slowly with arms wide, but my father jerks her back.
As he should.
Monsters, even royal ones, belong in cages.
Not in castles or happily ever afters.
Vicious appears behind my Dad, his tux and hair styled identically to how mine was earlier. Before Hendrix went and rattled me, looking drop dead gorgeous in her jade dress. Before I got close enough to smell her fucking pheromones. Feel her skin. Her pulse. Her fucking everything .
But mostly it’s before I found out my mother’s sleazy, handsy, nephew was going to show up two days fresh out of prison. No doubt about to take his sexual frustrations out on Hendrix.
Vicious wears a stone cold scowl as he threatens to place his hands on either side of my father’s neck.
I’ll take your father. And your sister . If you don’t give me who I want.
“Get out of my head!” Tears blind my eyes as I lunge for him, forcing my father to shove Theory to the side and bear hug me.
“Son!” He grunts. “Please. Just listen to the sound of my voice. He’s not real.”
I thrash in his arms, fists flying, nails gripping wherever I can, leaving another round of marks and bruises on the last man in the world who would ever deserve it.
Especially on his fucking wedding night.
I groan low, deep, my octaves rising with every list of my father’s pleas and pacifications.
Listen to my voice.
You are Saint Lavell.
The Royals’ quarterback.
Here with me, your father, Victor Lavell, and your sister Theory Lavell, who love and care about you very much.
You are not a monster.
These words would mean everything to me in another life, another time, where I may actually believe it.
But right now in this room, as I use my brute force to tear open the collar of my father’s white shirt—any form of defense involving words of affirmations is the equivalent of bringing a knife to a gunfight.
Pointless. Doomed.
Just like my fucking existence.
Ravage.
Ruin.
Vicious begins his usual twisted motto, poofing into thin air then appearing behind Theory, eyes on me as his mouth descends to her neck.
Paint. Her. Red.
He hovers there, raising two fingers to caress my sister’s cheek.
“Don’t fucking touch her!” I shove my father off me, throwing myself at Theory and nearly crushing her into the wall.
Vicious steps back, head angled sideways, watching as my father restrains me with enough force to bring me down.
Then give me the one I really want… he buzzes like a bee as soon as my face hits the floor, the eyes he stole from me wide and wild. Give me the bitch you hate. Feed me her blood and make her beg for our mercy.
“You can’t fucking have her!”
I hate Hendrix, fucking hate her.
How she looks at me, challenges me.
Makes me want to break her for what she did then fix her pretty. Play. Protect. Fucking ruin her like she’s ruining me.
I’ve put in the work.
Kept up the charm.
The patience, damn it.
Managed to stay close enough to bask in her presence without putting her at risk of my insanity. To drink in her smiling eyes even though they were never for me.
I’ve got no shame in admitting to anyone that I’ve got an unexplainable need for this girl's attention.
To swallow her anger, disdain. Taste that smart mouth.
In fact, my actions leading up to our best friends getting together were driven solely by this need.
I’ve spent months behind thousands of different facades, and weeks behind newly sparked hatred for Hendrix. Which I was hoping would be enough to stop this yearning to be close to her.
It hasn’t. As a matter of fact, it’s gotten worse.
But even spoon feeding the monster is too fucking dangerous.
You see? Vicious mutters right next to my face. You’re weak. You need me to make you strong.
I can smell the scent of my cologne on him, the heat from his whiskey tinged breath. But, before I get the chance to respond, Theory is dropping to the floor in his place.
“Hey, big b-bro,” she calls out. “Think you can turn the lights up for me?”
She repeats the catch phrase, the same one she created years ago with Dr. Morris to bring me back. It’s worked in the past, but not so much in the present.
I need him gone. I need them gone.
I need the feeling of Vicious seeping in and out of my veins gone.
“I t-told you not to invite these people!” Theory shouts at my dad. “I told you they’d t-trigger him. But you never l-listen.”
“They’re members of our parish, Theory. I’ve grown close to this family regardless of who they’re related to. I didn’t think this would happen.”
Like I said . Vicious’ voice returns, this time echoing throughout the suite. Pathetic and weak.
I can feel the surface of my throat searing from another roar, the sudden burst of energy strong enough to break my father’s hold on me and knock Theory over.
I hate myself even more for it.
Guilt loses its battle against insanity as I jump to my feet, pacing back and forth in the room, chest heaving, saliva spitting like a caged beast.
Vicious follows right behind, then multiplying to circle me.
Take her. Make her ours to punish for what she said.
I can’t. I fucking won’t. Not the way he wants me to.
No matter how far she crossed a line Hendrix earned my wrath, not his.
The pressure builds the faster my feet move, almost into a sprint as I hear Theory’s worries about how my meds are no longer working and my mood swings are getting worse. They eventually turn into background noise…along with my father’s usual prayer for the sick.
“Thy sick servant…” he prays out loud.
Ravage. Ruin. Vicious commands right after .
Smack in the middle of this room, there’s the ultimate fight between good and evil, the need to break free of both turning into blinding desperation.
No monsters, no saints.
Or at least any that can save me.
There’s only one way out of this hell I’m in, and it’s far down from here.
A door opens behind me, a fourth, then fifth, and sixth body enters the room, one of which has a familiar collectiveness to his voice. Words are muffled until they blend into the same distorted hums as my father and sister’s.
I know exactly why my father called Dr. Morris. He’s part of the Royal Heathens’ medical chain of command. But chains, even discreet ones, were always meant to be broken by someone.
Alcohol and desperation make for easy bad decisions, and the second mine is settled I dart toward the open window, ready to embrace the fall.
My feet move like air, but I don’t make it far before my plans, along with my body, is being pummeled onto the floor by two angry giants.
We’re in the midst of a wrestling match, adrenaline doing the trick to fight them off.
That is, until a fist nails me in the cheek, rattling the inside of my head.
The room is spinning too fast for me to stop the hand shoving down the back of my pants—the sound of Vicious’ roar too loud to avoid the needle I’m jabbed with.
Within seconds, my muscles begin to relax, lungs begin to deflate, mind begins to slow.
Vicious begins to fade.
Then…lights go out.