26. Hendrix
Hendrix
“ T heory, wait!” I chase her into the hall. “Please just listen.”
“How c-could you?!” She whirls around, cheeks soaked from crying. “After all the times I c-confided in you about my past?”
“I said that before I even knew you…and regretted it immediately. Saint hurt my friend one night so I hurt him back.” Pausing for a breath, I add, “I wanted to tell you so many times but after hearing your stories...I couldn’t.”
With a sad chuckle, she wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You wanna know the m-most fucked up part?”
I wince.
“I would have forgiven you on the spot if you did.”
She’s actually wrong.
The most fucked up part is deep down I knew this but was too scared to risk it.
“Why?”
“Because I know how ruthless my b-brother can be! How he can drive himself, along with everyone else, m-mad.”
“I’m sorry. But in my head it was better to make up for what I did with my actions.”
“So I’m a pity sister?”
“Of course not!” I squeeze her shoulders. “I wouldn’t feel like such a piece of shit if you were.”
Listening to her and Saint’s conversation broke my heart, since the true meaning behind Theory’s pain was so obvious.
She’s been smothered by her brother for years, unable to find her own identity, and instead of Saint granting her the chance to do so, he doubles down.
And when I heard my name come up, I almost choked on fear of losing a girl I’m finally starting to consider a sister.
“You are a piece of s-shit.” Theory shoves me—harder than I expect. “Not only for the things you s-said, but for the lack of respect you have for me to admit it.”
I deserved that one, so I’ll let it slide.
“I do respect you.”
“Fuck you, H-hendrix. You’re just like the rest of these fake bitches.”
“No, I’m not. I made a mistake and have been trying to make up for it ever since.”
“Well, you failed. Miserably.”
“You don’t mean that.”
A fire burns in her eyes, one I know all too well.
“Oh, b-but I do.”
“Let’s just get out of here, okay? We can go shopping and you can tell me how to fix this.”
Theory’s chest heaves, making it clear my suggestion struck a vital nerve. “You know…for someone so repulsed by my b-brother, you’re starting to sound a lot l-like him.”
The first spark of anger hits me. “I’m nothing like Saint.”
A cold blooded smile curls at her lips. “Keep fucking him until you actually b-believe that.”
It takes every ounce of my self-restraint not to strangle her.
I’m wrong, I admit it.
But I won’t let her mistake my remorse for weakness.
Or talk down to me the way she is right now.
“Watch your fucking mouth, Theory,” I mutter through tight lips. “I’ve rearranged faces for a lot less.”
She snorts. “You’ve got a lot of nerve threatening me when I k-know what I know.”
My hands ball into fists at my sides as Stanley appears.
“Simmer down, girls. Whatever it is, I’m sure you can work it out in a civilized fashion.”
“Leave, Stanley. N-now,” Theory demands, eyes glued to me.
Stanley obliges with a nod but doesn’t go far.
“Go ahead. Tell our parents about me and Saint. I don’t give a fuck.
But something tells me your daddy will.” Crowding her space, I glare at Theory with an even colder grin.
“In fact, hearing how the son who just got home from his special retreat fucked his stepsister is exactly what will keep your dad from sending him back.”
Theory blinks, not expecting me to have put two coincidences together.
“It’s perfect timing, actually. Since your brother failed to tank their entire honeymoon stage.”
“S-shut up.”
“Imagine all the attention you’ll have if my mother decides to divorce him. Or maybe none at all if you’re sent packing back to fucking Switzerland.”
Theory growls, lunging for me, but I step out of the way.
And the only thing stopping me from raining down hell is knowing who deserves it even more.
I would’ve spent whatever time necessary to make amends with this girl, but she didn’t strike when the iron was hot.
She struck when it melted.
“Stay the f-fuck away from me,” Theory spits.
“With fucking pleasure.”
After several tense moments of us staring each other down, she spins on her heels and takes off, Stanley right behind her.
Carlo returns from taking a phone call, on high alert when he takes in my current state.
“ Signorina —” he says, but I stop him.
“Promise me you’ll stay here.”
“But you’re very angry.”
“I’m fine.” Nodding my head to the closed door, I tell him, “Just need a word with Saint.”
Carlo doesn’t like it but gives me his word, reassuring me he’ll be in the hall if I need him.
As furious as I am, guilt chews at me as I barge back into the room where Saint’s got his arms crossed waiting for me.
“Why the fuck did you do it?” I slam the door shut and march over to him. “To punish me?”
He remains silent and composed, unlike me when I slap him across the face.
“Tell me!”
“Guess I just felt like it.”
“You’re so full of shit.” I shake my head, heart pounding behind my ribs. “I couldn’t decipher the code to your fucked up attempt at showing me you wanna take things further, so you felt rejected and chose to lash out.”
He tilts his head, glancing up at the ceiling. “Sounds like something I’d do.”
“Theory will never forgive me.” I cry through a sob. “And I’ll never forgive you.” I try locking with Saint’s gaze, and true to form, he refuses to look at me. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
His lip does that twitching thing, which tells me I’m right.
“Since the day I met you in that closet, I’ve been fighting so many of my instincts. To stay away from you. Stop thinking about you. See past you…and even Vicious.”
This garners a whole ass reaction, and it’s full of surprise.
“Yeah, I’ve known about him for a while.”
“When…”
“Archer told me the night of our parents’ wedding. After you attacked Lance.”
Saint shoves his hands in his pockets, fiddling with something.
“I watched in horror as all the light drained from your face and you nearly killed someone.”
He turns away again, and I snatch his chin, forcing him to look at me. “You wanted me to speak? Now I’m speaking, so you’re gonna fucking listen.”
His jaw hardens, but he doesn’t argue when I let go.
“From the moment in the storage room I knew something was off with you, that there were demons you were fighting and trying to hide. But not once did they stop me from playing our games. Getting under your skin. Putting myself at your mercy.” I pause, gathering my emotions before I say, “Sleeping next to you in your bed.”
I watch as a glimmer of pain sweeps over Saint’s face.
“What the fuck does that tell you? Huh?”
“I don’t know.”
“It tells you that I trusted you! This whole time. Regardless of my instincts, my friends, my better judgment. Never once was I afraid to be alone with you or believed you’d ever hurt me. But you allowed some apparition in your mind to convince you I can’t.”
“Jimi—”
“I gave you so many chances to know I trusted you, Saint. It’s not my fault you didn’t take them.”
The play on words does the trick, because Saint’s not only thinking, he’s regretting.
Well, too little too fucking late.
“After everything we’ve been through, the walls we tore down, you take one misunderstanding, which wasn’t even my fault because your methods are dizzying, to choose spite instead of patience!
Because if you’d waited a little bit longer before betraying me, you would’ve known I talked to my friends, got some clarity, and came looking for you to tell you I’m no longer ‘late for class.’”
With furious taps of my foot, I await any type of significant response. Hurt, but not surprised, when all I’m met with is heavy silence.
“You ruined everything, Saint, I hope it was worth it.”
“Guess this means you hate me again,” he finally says, marking the end of the conversation.
“Hatred.” I study the distant expression on his face. “Funny you never had a problem sensing that.”
My anger is an emotion hardest to fight, because it’s always been bigger than me.
Even as a child, violence was habitual, the answer to every problem when it came to being mistreated at school, on the playground, even during play dates.
If some kid called me names, I’d settle the score by choking, biting, or scratching their face.
As I got older, my impulses became worse, so much I scared Mom and Auntie into taking me to therapy.
It did shit, and Mom refused meds in fear of me magically changing into a different kid. Typical stereotype.
So, instead, I spent all of elementary school in and out of the guidance office, working on proper methods of conflict resolution to control my temper. But I couldn’t help it, inflicting pain to thwart mine was visceral.
As a little girl, I never understood why I’d have these knee-jerk reactions, why I liked them, or why I couldn’t control them.
Until one day in fifth grade, Mrs. Lee, my counselor, suggested I pick up a pencil. To draw, not write, my feelings on paper.
She explained how visualizing, not spelling, emotions could sometimes make it easier to understand them.
Turns out, she was right.
Because the second I put a pencil to paper and was told to draw whatever scenario brought me into her office that day, it was like a fog lifted.
At first, most of my scenes consisted of hateful words in bubbles, bloody faces, guts, devil horns…and Mrs. Lee didn’t even protest.
She promised it was safe for me to express myself and show exactly how I pictured others in my head. Until eventually the bloody faces and horns turned into bubbly cartoons, and the bubbly cartoons turned into portraits of my favorite characters.
Mostly superheroes.
As I matured I got better, not as much as my drawings but with enough emotional regulation to get me through middle and the first half of high school with only a handful of major incidents.
Enter…Riverside Prep.
Enter…Saint Lavell.
Scratching lines over my third attempt at Scarlet Witch, I toss my sketch pad on the bed and fall onto my back with a huff.
“Hendrix…you are officially broken.”