Rose
“You’re nothing more than a functioning psychopath. A weapon I created to carry out my desires. And now you’ll be tossed away forever.”
Words aimed to hurt only slid from my ear drums like the waste that they are. It’s only at this very moment that I’m able to piece together what was done to me.
The medication she insisted I didn’t need anymore, the secret conversations where she fed me stories about the hellish life she shared with my father.
She coaxed the monster until she knew she could unleash it.
“And you’re nothing more than an evil woman, attempting to be your own salvation,” I say, dizzy from the pain as I glare at her.
“You make me sound like some sort of god,” she responds with a chuckle, her bloody hand leaving a smear on her cheek as she tries to push her hair away from her face, still holding the weapon towards me in shaking hands. She knows she isn’t safe. Good.
Oh, mother. You always were perfectly put together. A beautiful lie. For once, you appear as maniacal on the outside as you are in your very core.
“A god? One with power over human fortunes and human life? One revered as the almighty being in control?” I grunt over the pain lancing through my back. The sight of her with my blood on her hand and on the knife she’s holding enrages me. But I hear the sirens, I know they’re coming. “There are no gods here. Though if there were one, I’m certain you wouldn’t be the primary candidate for the title.”
They may lock me up and throw away the key. But I’ll find my way out to finish the task.
A loud bang snags my attention, pulling me away from my sightless gaze aimed at my bloody fingers. The last time I had so much blood on my hands, it was my father’s.
And it triggered memories I’ve tried to suppress since the incident.
I stand to open the door and when I do, my body is hauled back inside as he presses a kiss to my temple before setting me back down.
Wordlessly, Abel takes one of my bloody hands and leads me to the bathroom. He washes my hands gently, sure to get every inch of them clean, pressing his lips to each knuckle when he’s finished.
Is this gratitude?
“Let’s pack,” he tells me, urgency dripping in his tone.
And in my nostalgic melancholy, I acquiesce.