I hit and hit and hit until I could see Claude’s face, until my senses were saturated with blood instead of peppery musk and cigarettes.
And for the first time since Mom died, I smiled.
Unfortunately, however, my first kill came with a psychological diagnosis and the glorious streak of Dad being disappointed in me.
He wanted a proper heir who’d inherit his estate, but he had me, a cocktail of bad decisions and mental issues. I think he’s always hated that I’m so much like my mom.
He divorced her because he didn’t get along with her, but it’s not like he can get rid of his own son the same way.
I feel sorry for him sometimes. When I’m not a dick who keeps causing trouble, I wish I were more like him—unfeeling, detached, and methodical—so that he’d be proud of me.
I wish I weren’t such…a clusterfuck of emotions with a defective brain.
I wish I were a proper son.
I know Dad cares about me in his own way. He really tried to get closer to me after Mom’s death. He even took me on this mountain trip, just the two of us for the whole summer, and tried to talk to me, but I was scared.
I still am.
At the back of my mind, I keep thinking that one day, he’ll realize he’s had enough, just like with my mom, and abandon me, too.
That’s why I’ve done everything under the sun to get his attention. Fights, murder, sabotage, and burning his property. At least if he punishes me, it means he cares.
Fucked up, true, but as you now know, I am fucked up. Extremely so.
I’m fucked up enough that I crush people’s egos on the ice (or outside of it) because I picture them as Claude. It gives me immense satisfaction to see arrogant people like him humbled.
I’m so fucked up that I get myself hurt just to feel alive. Without pain, it’s hard for me to exist in the moment.
It’s why I don’t understand what the fuck you see in me, Marcus.
How…can you look at me with those soft eyes all the time? How can you automatically have this warm smile just because I’m there?
How can you be happy to see me when I’m barely holding myself together?
I don’t get it. I just don’t.
You should be with someone whole, not whatever Frankensteined pieces of me I put together every morning to play pretend.
And I do pretend. A lot.
I pretend I’m the prettiest, most handsome man on earth with the biggest dick, when, in reality, that beauty disgusts me.
I was called pretty a lot by Claude and that teacher.
And I HATED it. I loathed being pretty because only creepy touches and suffocation came with it.
I thought if I weren’t so pretty, none of that would’ve happened to me.
I pretend that I like being praised for my beauty, but really, it makes my skin crawl. I’ll look in the mirror and force a smile when all I want to do is smash the monstrous image reflected back at me.
Because that’s all I see—an ugly monster with a fractured skull and bulging eyes. A demon who took the place of my image from childhood.
Thing is, I let Claude kill my real self.
I let him take it all away when I stopped fighting like a coward, and now, I’m stuck with this shadow of me. Someone with a pretty exterior but rotten insides.
And I don’t…want you to see that part of me, Marcus. Ever.
