Page 63 of Fragile Twisted Vows

Tears start to pool in my eyes as millions of emotions start to flood through me, I turn my head to bury my gaze in my arm so he doesn’t see. All the while, he continues to thrust into me. Until he drops the knife to the floor. Until he drags me up by my lower back with one hand, my shoulders still against the bed as I slink like a cat. Until his other hand places itself over my pounding heart. Until he roars my name and comes inside of me with a force I’ve never known.

He was right after all.

He owns me.

But he doesn’t just own my body or my heart.

Now, he owns my soul too.

twenty

Damien

“You’re falling in love with her,” Adrian says from his desk across from our office downtown.

I wave him off, but he’s right.

I’m falling in love with Lucille Fairchild and it’s quite honestly the dumbest decision that I’ve ever made.

I didn’t sleep at all last night, mostly because I was in bed with Lucy until one in the morning. Right now, I am filled with confusion, frustration and a massive fucking headache.

“I don’t want to get into this right now,” I groan as I rub my forehead with my fingers.

Adrian scoffs at me.

I’ve been lying to him and he knows it. Hell, I’ve been lying to everyone. Brushing things off because I got too much shit to worry about, shoving things under the rug because I don’t want to think about any more bullshit than I already have to.

Lying, for me, feels like a skill I’ve mastered. The words roll off my tongue with ease, and the guilt that once tugged at my conscience has long since faded. It’s like slipping into a well-worn coat—comfortable and familiar. I navigate my interactions with a sense of detachment, aware that my lies shape the reality others perceive. There’s a certain power in that, an ability to control the narrative to my advantage. The truth, with all its complications, seems like a burden I no longer need to carry. Instead, I focus on the outcomes, the benefits, and the ease with which I move through life, unburdened by the weight of honesty.

But ever since Lucille Fairchild entered my world, all of that has gone out the window.

Now, lying gnaws at me from the inside out. Each untruth I weave seems harmless at first, just a way to smooth things over, but the weight of my deceit grows with each passing day. It’s as if I’ve created a tangled web that ensnares my conscience, pulling tighter every time I face those I’ve deceived. The guilt lingers in the back of my mind, a constant reminder of the trust I’ve broken. Sleepless nights become the norm, as I replay my lies and the potential fallout. Something I’ve never done before. The facade I maintain feels like a prison, trapping me in a cycle of dishonesty that erodes my sense of self-worth. It’s a burden that I can’t easily shake off, a shadow that follows me everywhere.

It’s something I’ve shoved so far away inside of my mind because the heaviness of it is too much to bear. Because there isn’t time to let things like lying weigh you down. Everyone has secrets.

Keeping secrets can sometimes feel like possessing a hidden strength. These unspoken truths give me an edge, allowing me to maneuver through social dynamics with a certain finesse. They offer a layer of protection, safeguarding my vulnerabilities and providing a sense of control over my narrative. By holding back certain information, I can avoid unnecessary conflicts and maintain an air of mystery, which often works to my advantage. These secrets become my silent allies, empowering me to navigate life with a discreet sense of confidence and independence. In a way, they act as a buffer, shielding me from potential harm while enhancing my ability to manage relationships and situations effectively.

I first learned this when I was a small boy, when I saw my father abusing my step-mom. He taught me about secrets at a very young age.

I remember when my father first taught me the art of deception. I was five years old, and I had no idea that the little white lies he encouraged would become a significant part of my life. One evening, he sat me down and explained that sometimes, telling the truth wasn’t always the best option. He shared stories of how keeping secrets and bending the truth had helped him navigate difficult situations. At first, it felt like a game, a skill to master. But as I grew older, I realized the weight of his lessons. Keeping secrets became a way to protect myself and those I cared about, while lying became a tool to maintain control over my circumstances. These teachings shaped how I handled relationships and challenges, and though the burden of deceit often felt heavy, I couldn’t deny the power and advantage it sometimes offered.

And then, I started keeping my own secrets. I started lying to the very same puppet master that taught me the art of deception.

I remember the days when my father’s anger would fill the house like a storm. His manipulative ways were a constant presence, shaping my actions and thoughts. He had a way of twisting words and situations to his advantage, making me feel small and powerless. Every decision I made was influenced by the fear of his wrath and the need to avoid his manipulative tactics. It was a suffocating environment, where I learned to tread carefully, always second-guessing myself. The impact of his behavior lingered long after I left home, shaping how I viewed relationships and trust. Even now, the memories of his anger and manipulation are a reminder of the strength it took to break free from his control.

And when I found out that he was keeping secrets from me, his wrath became my own.

I remember the day I discovered the truth about my mother. It was like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless and reeling. My father had always been a shadowy figure, but I never imagined the extent of his actions. After I was born, he sent my mother away to Mexico, hiding her from me and the world.

The realization that he had kept her away from me all these years filled me with a mix of anger, sadness, and betrayal. It was as if a piece of my identity had been stolen, and I was left to pick up the fragments of a life I never knew I had.

The weight of this secret was overwhelming, and I couldn’t help but wonder how different my life would have been if I had known her from the start.

Not trusting my own father was a painful realization that took years to fully sink in, but as soon as I found my mother’s files in his office during my freshman year, it hit me like a box truck.

His words, once a source of guidance, became tainted with manipulation and deceit. Every promise he made felt like it came with hidden motives, and I found myself constantly questioning his intentions. The moments of genuine connection were overshadowed by the nagging doubt that he was playing another one of his mind games. It was a lonely feeling, knowing that the person who should have been my rock was instead the cause of so much uncertainty and pain. This mistrust seeped into other areas of my life, making it hard to open up and rely on others. The foundation of our relationship was cracked, and no amount of effort seemed to mend the damage.

In fact, this broken foundation only made me hate him.

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