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I look over to the elderly man waiting for her with the car door open and the woman in an expensive fur coat observing everything from inside the car. They're probably her parents.
“I don't give autographs. Get in the car, Becca!” Manasseh orders me and slams the door in the girl's face. She looks at me confused, and I glance back at her with sympathy.
“Sorry,” I mumble apologetically and get into the car, watching as she stays frozen with her phone in hand. “Can't you be a little less insufferable with people who appreciate you?”
“I don't do it for anyone's appreciation,” he touches his eyebrow and frowns.
“Everyone will think you're a jerk. Not that you aren't...”
“I don't care,” he snaps back suddenly and checks his cheek in the foldable mirror on the ceiling. “And you should mind your own business and stop giving your opinion about my life, when I haven’t asked.”
I clench my fists, holding back the urge to smack him across the face. My mother is my weak point, and right now, she's in his hands. My father would never allow him to treat her this way. I thought having sex with him was the hook I needed to keep him, to calm him down for a while, but I was wrong.
Manasseh is even more unpredictable than he looks.
CHAPTER 18
Five years ago
Rebecca
In my bedroom, two colors have reigned for as long as I can remember: pink and white. The furniture dons the white part, while the rest of the space is pink, except for the posters that showcase my eclectic taste in music and movies, creating a vibrant contrast. It may sound cliché, but I am one of those girls who have a weakness for cute and... pink things.
Or at least I used to be.
That was until five seconds ago, after Samael entered my bedroom that looks just like Wonderland, where I am Alice, and he looks more like the Mad Hatter because you have to be crazy not to burst into laughter when you see my room. My decor now feels inadequate, and I wish it looked more mature, because I don't want him to see me as just another boring little girl.
Because I'm not. I'm so much more than meets the eye. I even started drinking coffee in the morning. It's a 5th, an Irish coffee with milk.
I close my eyes and sigh when I realize that I had left my laptop on. As the melody of Sia's “Bird Set Fire” fills the room, I realize this song always makes me cry, for some unknown reason, maybe some untreated trauma, so I hurriedly close the laptop.
“Sia, huh?” Sami remarks with an enigmatic smile, and I nervously fidget with my hands.
“Oh, the songs were on autoplay,” I try to explain, because I don't know if he listens to Sia, and I would be disappointed to find out that we don't share the same music taste.
I’ll admit it. I want him to like me, but now I’m scared he'll see me as just another typical girl, obsessed with plush toys and pop artists.
But who am I fooling? What did I tell you? I'm not special. I'm just a nearly sixteen-year-old girl who's crazy about Ryan Gosling movies and pretends to hate Ben Affleck, even though I find him attractive, despite being a housebreaker. Part of me loves him, and another part hates him because I'm the type of girl who stands for morals, and infidelity is a crime to me. I can't forget that he cheated on Jennifer Lopez, whom I adore just as much as Britney Spears. Affleck is a player, and I don't like players.
My heart leans towards boys with dark, slightly wavy hair, eyes as profound as the night ocean, and a name like Samael.
I also love collecting tiny, cute things, and due to this little obsession, I have a box in my closet filled with small toys like complete collections of dinosaurs from Kinder Surprise or big albums filled with collages cut out from magazines, with my favorite bands and actors. Those are the only things I keep organized because they mean a lot to me. They are my treasures, or as I like to call them, my legacy. I even have a journal of memories buried in the backyard, filled with stories and pictures of the important people in my life, so that when I'm no longer here, they can be found decades, or even centuries later, keeping my memory alive.
I would love it if someone remembered me, even after all these years have passed.
My childhood was filled with endless hospital stays due to my fragile health, leaving me terribly bored. Albums were the only things that filled my time, helping me forget where I was. I would imagine myself on stage at Lady Gaga's concert, whom I adore, or playing alongside Mark Wahlberg, fighting dangerous villains.
“So, since I'm hosting you, no comments about my room,” I put on an air of confidence, but the truth is that
I'm scared to death at the thought of my parents catching me with a boy in my room. That's why I grab Sami by the arm and pull him inside, locking the door from the inside for safety.
Usually, the door screeches loudly, but I've mastered its quirks. I gently lift the handle while closing it to avoid the noise. It’s so annoying and sometimes I wonder if my dad deliberately leaves it that way to keep track of when I come and go.
“Okay,” Sami refrains from making any remarks, instead exploring my room with genuine interest.
I watch him stand still, waiting for an invitation to sit, and I hide my hands with shame. He shouldn't be here, but I want so badly to help him, to be the one person who's there for him whenever he needs assistance.
I want him to rely on me, to take me seriously, just as I do.
