Chapter 28 The Past
THE PAST
AMELIA’S brEAKING POINT
I spent the afternoon curled on the sagging cushions of the old couch, the pages of my novel spread open in my lap.
Outside, the late-afternoon light filtered through dusty curtains, and inside, the hush of the empty house pressed against me.
I clung to each sentence, willing the words to hold off the shadows creeping at the edges of my thoughts. Then a hard, persistent knocking shattered the stillness.
My heart thundered as I shot upright. The couch groaned beneath me, its springs protesting after years of use. Who could possibly be out there?
Everyone who knew this place stayed far away, drawn to gossip about its history of sorrow, afraid of the restless darkness said to swirl behind its cracked wallpaper.
Swallowing hard, I rose and padded toward the front door, every step weighed down by dread and curiosity. The split-second before I opened it stretched into eternity; I felt the air thicken in my lungs.
Then I saw him.
Caiden stumbled into the threshold, the reek of cheap whiskey clinging to him like a second skin. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wild and bloodshot beneath tangled hair.
The heavy door slammed behind him, and the sound rattled the plaster in the hallway.
He teetered forward, scowling, and I pressed back against the solid oak, my spine finding support in the cool grain.
“You bitch,” he growled, voice ragged. “You’re the reason I just lost my best friend.” Heat radiated from him in pulses. I felt it against my chest, as if I stood too close to a flame.
My legs trembled and I edged away, my back scraping against the doorframe.
I steadied my chin. “It takes two to end a friendship, Caiden. Blame Dante, not me.”
He scowled deeper, brown eyes narrowing to dark slits. “No,” he whispered, shocking me with the intensity. “I blame you.”
My breath hitched as his fist rose, the knuckles knuckling like polished bone. Every nerve in my body screamed flight, but my feet rooted themselves to the floor.
Then, with a thunderous crack, his fist thudded into the wall beside me. Plaster dust rained down.
I closed my eyes against the impact, my heart lodged in my throat.
When I dared to open them, Caiden clutched his wrist, pale light glinting on fresh blood that dripped between his fingers.
Relief washed through me so hard it left me trembling.
He squeezed his eyelids shut and pressed his forehead into his palms. “Fuck! I can’t do it. I’m not a piece of shit like my dad.”
I blinked at the vulnerable tilt of his shoulders. He’d been so imposing a moment ago, an angry storm of muscle and menace, and now here he was, shrunken and shaking.
I remembered the rumors, the stories of a boy hardened by cruelty, wielding his rage like a weapon.
Yet in this raw moment, the armor cracked, revealing a frightened child longing for something he couldn’t name.
His muttering drifted against my skin. My pulse hammered in my ears. Any word I spoke might ignite him again, but silence felt like an admission of guilt.
Without thinking, I lifted a hand and pressed it against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath my palm.
He jerked back as if I’d struck him. His eyes widened, confusion warring with rage. “What are you doing?” he whispered.
I swallowed around a dry throat. I wished I could explain how the story of his pain mirrored my own, how loneliness had become a shared language between us. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice small.
He ran a hand through his hair, dark brows knitting together. “I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing here.”
Silence fell again. I could tell him to leave, that I feared what he might become, but he kept talking. “I told myself I wanted to hurt you, but I fucking can’t. I’m an ass with my words, yeah, but I wouldn’t ever hit a woman.”
I exhaled, the tension in my chest loosening. “Because you’re not your father. You’re better than him, Caiden.”
His jaw clenched. “What do you know about my father? What do you know about me? You don’t know a damn thing.”
I pressed my lips together, fighting down sudden panic. “I know enough. You’re wounded by him. And I… I’m wounded, too. Not in the same way, maybe, but I understand pain.”
His face twisted in a hopeless snarl. “I wouldn’t even have these issues if it wasn’t for your druggie mom!” The accusation cut through me like shattered glass.
My pulse jolted. “My mom?”
He spat the words out, venom dripping from each syllable: “Your mom fucked my dad while my mom was still around, after your dad left. My mom found out and left. That’s when my dad really let hell rain down on me.
He turned into a drunk, abusive asshole.
He blamed your mom for the failure of his marriage and burned it into my brain that I need to hate you. So, I learned to fucking hate you.”
The air turned electric as the betrayal settled over me.
An affair. My mother’s secret, now exposed in bitter confession. The walls of this house felt as if they were closing in, and I struggled to catch my next breath.
He saw the shock in my eyes and lashed out again. “Your mom is a whore, just like you and your sister!”
Pain flared in my chest, hot and stinging.
Every part of me trembled with rage. “Fuck you!” I screamed, louder than I’d ever intended.
My words reverberated off the hallway walls.
“Get the hell out of my house! You’re an abusive bastard just like your father, taking your anger out on people who don’t deserve it. ”
He staggered back, shock, and something like fear, flitting across his face.
In that charged moment, I realized how close we’d come to destruction, how thin the line was between his rage and mine. My own fury surged, a dam finally giving way.
For the first time since I’d known him, he looked small, cornered, vulnerable, empty behind the fury slashing across his face.
I kept coming at him, my voice a blade. “You’re right, Caiden. My mom’s a mess, and my sister’s dead, and you’re a wreck because your father broke you. But you don’t get to use that as an excuse to make everyone else as miserable as you are. You’re not the only one who’s lost something.”
He trembled, fingers twitching at his sides, blood still trailing down his hand. “No,” he said, shaking his head, too forceful, as if he could send the words back inside me with sheer will.
“You want to blame me for everything? Fine. Do it. You want to hit me? Go ahead. But don’t pretend you’re not just a scared little boy who can’t stand feeling powerless.” I was screaming, flailing my arms like a woman gone mad.
Suddenly, he lurched forward, chest heaving, limbs rigid with a purpose even he didn’t seem to understand. His body crowded mine, but it wasn’t violence in his eyes now; it was something raw and pleading. “I should hate you,” he whispered. “I should want to kill you.”
But neither of us moved. The moment stretched dark and endless.
I was shaking, every muscle poised for flight, but I didn’t move. I wanted him to hit me, to make it real, to give me a wound on the outside that would finally match the ones inside.
“Why don’t you?” I challenged.
His face hovered a breath from mine, every line of his jaw clenching with the urge to destroy or collapse or both. I stared into his eyes, searching for the monster I’d always known and seeing only a wild, desperate ache.
For a heartbeat, we were suspended. Two wreckages circling the same fire, waiting for the spark.
He slammed his fist into the wall above my head, hard enough to vibrate the bones of the house, and every nerve in my body fired. “You want me to be like him?” he spat, words trembling. “You want me to prove you right?”
“Go ahead,” I snapped back, “Ruin me. Finish me off. I’m a corpse waiting to be buried at this point, rotten from your fucking torment.”
I wanted him to bruise me. Bruise me so badly the ache would finally silence the endless, gnawing clamor in my skull.
He lunged, not with violence, but with hands tangled in my hair, mouth smashing against mine.
Fury sparked between our teeth. I bit down hard enough to taste blood, and he groaned, the sound animal, unguarded.
We tumbled, locked together, toppling to the floor as if gravity was stronger here, as if the house itself demanded our collision.
He pinned my wrists to the floor, face hovering just above mine, blood from his split lip falling hot onto my chin. “You’re crazy,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You’re fucking insane.”
“So are you,” I said, and he kissed me again.
I hated myself for letting him in; hated how my mouth met his with equal violence, how my teeth scraped his tongue, drawing out more blood and a guttural sound that was half agony, half pleasure.
We clawed at each other, not with longing but with the blind, animal need to destroy and punish, howling into the kind of kiss that tears at both souls and lips.
His hands pinned and then released, fingers knotting in my hair, jerking my head back so hard I gasped.
I hated him. I hated him so much my whole body vibrated with it, and in that moment the hate felt electric, almost alive.
This was the only way we could forge our hatred into something physical and punishing.
The more I fought, the deeper he dug in, until my scalp ached from his grip and my jaw threatened to snap under the pressure of his mouth.
My legs thrashed for control, but he was heavier, meaner, and in some sick part of myself I relished being overpowered, relished feeling something that wasn’t numbness or sorrow.
“Is this what you want?” he spat, voice shattering on the question. “You want me to break you?”
He dragged his mouth down my neck, biting hard enough to leave marks, a necklace of bruises, dark as the thoughts that throbbed between us.
We thrashed on the hardwood, knocking into a small table. A lamp fell, glass shattering across the floor.
His hand slid up my shirt, nails raking, and I dug my fingers into the bite wound leaking across his jaw.