Stupid, confusing, irrelevant, rotten, no goodfeelings.
Azalea
Despite my best efforts, my face refuses to come off.
This is devastating news. For a multitude of reasons.
I cannot scrape the sensation of Malcolm’s mouth—half open—against my cheek away. His stubble lingers, prickling my flesh and my mind, while I stare, helpless, in my bathroom mirror at the angry red I’ve scrubbed into myself.
Ever since shakily making it home four hours ago, I’ve taken three showers. It’s past midnight, but I can’t bring myself to climb into my nice clean bed while the feeling of Malcolm’s arms constrict around me. Crushing. Commanding. Clinging like soot and ash and tar.
My stomach and my headhurt. My body’s on fire.
I have no idea what’s happening to me.
The last time he hugged me…we were in that hotel room. It was after our first day at Fantasy Haven. I was exhausted and angry and uncomfortable. The sensations now are similar, but different. It shocked my system before, but there was so muchanger, I hardly paid it complete mind. Now, in the past decade, I have been hugged twice.
By him.
A man who claims to love me.
A man who wrestles for his life and asks ifI’mthe one who’s okay in the aftermath.
With that thought, my other cheek deepens in hue until I can’t tell what I have and haven’t attacked. My arms lift, circle, and squeeze until I’m hugging myself in the mirror, deliberately aware it’s not the same thing.
And…what if…I love you anyway?
I won’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Even if Ididbelieve it, it changes nothing. It doesn’t matter. So what if a monster loves me? Sowhat?
A monster’s love isn’t real. It’s self-serving. It’s repulsive. It’s inconsequential and insignificant and inconsiderate. It’s unimportant.
I had a knife in my hand tonight, and if things had played out just a fraction differently, I’d have sunk that blade into Malcolm’s flesh. Maybe I’d have even twisted it. Because Ihatehim. And I know I hate him because when I let myself hate him, I feel it in every one of my cells. They vibrate with disgust and loathing.
They vibrate…and I…
I shiver at the thought of him.
My stomach turns over, and I sink against my counter.
“What…is wrong with me?” Bitterness coats my tongue, and I push my hair back, straightening as I do.
It’s late.
I need to sleep.
But I can’t bring myself to lie down, and I can’t make my brain shut up, either.
Worse, I can’t find my crystal heart, and I’m too exhausted to brave the chance she’s not in my car. I’m too exhausted to venture out again into this horrible night.
Dragging myself to my room, I settle down on the floor beside my bed and pull my phone off my nightstand. Leaning against the pure white wood, I swipe to my messages, to Malcolm.
Malcolm Swallow. Crow. Billionaire. Menace.
What if…I’m worse than anything you could ever hope to imagine?
What if I’m no different than him?
What if I’mworse?
