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He won't kill me.
He will make me kill myself.
Chapter Six
BENEDETTO
Let lying wolves sleep.
But no, people and their fucking addiction to push you until you hit a brick wall and punch back.
Fucking nosy bitch.
The plots of horror movies have always been one and fucking the same but still, people never learn. They still dive head-first into the danger.
They go camping in the haunted house, they open the cursed book, they summon the demon, and they go on a road trip with some stranger they met online, ignoring every fucking warning sign.
Reckless bunch.
I said drop it, but no, she wanted to push and push until I pushed back. Unfortunately for her, she didn't need to push so much because my mother did the heavy lifting with her overbearing demand of wanting to make a family out of me and my uncle.
As if.
I knew I had hit her where I needed to when I had said she should have been dead. Who can blame me? I don't see my father marrying her sister a few weeks after her death. Disrespecting her like she is disrespecting him? Never. He loved her and everyone fucking knew it.
Claudio knows this. I'm sure he feels like a victor having her in his demise. Then she wants me to make the idiot gloat by accepting him with open arms, so he can finally say he has everything my father cherished.
Sick jealous psycho.
I bite down on my teeth grinding so hard I want them to turn to dust in my mouth.
“Benedetto,” Evelyn calls tentatively from behind me.
I suck in the rich smell of butter, vanilla, and coffee still lingering from breakfast, then turn away from the window and the now disturbingly beautiful orchid garden that my father and I planted every year from when I was four for my mother’s birthday.
“Yes?” I grate.
She clears her throat, “If you don't mind,” she walks to my side and points to the wreck of a dining table thanks to my rage of throwing plates and food over.
“Knock yourself out.”
Evelyn has been with my family longer than I have. She has seen the boy I was who kept her company in the kitchen, talking about artists and art. She has also seen the boy who would crash down the shelf full of porcelain housewares in a fit of anger when rebuked by his father for drawing instead of studying.
She knows what this is. And that's why she is treading gently, so as not to get caught by the tsunami.
“You barely touched your breakfast,” she makes a sad face at the Danish on the table.
“Don’t blame me,” I shrug.
“I will send you breakfast ,” she states with that tone that says I have to eat.
“I'm not in the mood Evelyn.”
“I know,” she smiles sadly, “I will send it, you eat it when you are in the mood,” she starts to clear the table from my mother’s side. “I'm glad you are back, I hope you stay.”
I nod, appreciating her attempt to distract me from the high-strung mood I am in.
If Rosaline had just fucking listened, if she had left me alone, if she had known when to draw a line and recoil, she wouldn't have seen me let that side of me out from the shadows.
