Page 90 of Sticks & Serpents

"I don’t understand what's so special about her," my mother said, moving closer. “She’s young. Naïve. She can’t make you feel the same pleasure I did, Damien. We both know it’s true.”

My teeth ground together, a dull ache throbbing in my jaw. Something inside me cracked at her words, a barrier I’d kept up for years starting to crumble under the weight of her disdain.

“You ruined me,” I shot back, each word laced with venom.

Her lips parted slightly—more from amusement than shock—as if my confession was just another piece in her twisted game.

“Oh, darling,” she cooed, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.

I clenched my hands into fists at my sides, shaking with a mixture of anger and pain. My vision burned with an intensity that made it hard to focus on anything but the figure standing before me—my tormentor, the architect of all my scars.

“You made me into this. Into something broken. And I hate you for it.”

She tilted her head, that infuriating smile still plastered on her face as if she relished in the chaos she’d created within me. “And yet, here we are.”

Every muscle in my body tensed at her dismissive tone. I felt like a coiled spring ready to snap—ready to lash out at the very person who had shaped my life into a series of shattered fragments. The truth was like poison seeping through my veins; I could barely stand it.

“Don’t pretend you care about me,” I spat, pushing back against the memories that threatened to drown me in darkness. “You only care about controlling everything around you.”

Her laughter echoed softly in the dimly lit hallway—a sound devoid of warmth and filled instead with an unsettling joy at seeing me squirm. It ignited something primal within me—a rage so fierce it clouded my judgment and blurred the lines between love and hatred.

“I will never let you have control over me again,” I said through gritted teeth, even as doubt flickered like a candle flame in my chest. Would Holly really be safe? Would she want to stay by my side once she saw who I truly was?

My mother stepped closer again, invading my space with an air of authority that felt suffocating. “You think running away will change anything? You’ll always come back to what you know. And that's me, Damien. Me."

I wanted to scream—to tell her that this time would be different—but the words caught in my throat like shards of glass as I faced the reality of our shared history hanging between us like an iron chain.

I stepped closer, my breath sharp and uneven. My hands twitched at my sides, an involuntary reaction to the rage boiling inside me. I had never said it before—never found the courage to voice the truth that twisted in my gut like a knife. But now? Now I couldn’t hold back.

“I hate you,” I whispered, the words jagged and raw as they slipped from my lips. “I hate what you did to me.”

A shudder rippled through me as I spoke, and for a moment, her expression faltered—just a flicker of something resembling concern. But it vanished too quickly, replaced by that infuriating calmness that always seemed to mock me.

“I hate myself because of you.”

Her smile faded for a brief second, replaced by an unsettling hum as she tilted her head. “So dramatic.”

I felt my vision darken at the edges, everything narrowing down to just her smug face—the one I had come to despise more than anything in this world. My chest tightened, breath becoming shallow as I fought against the swell of anger threatening to consume me whole.

She wouldn’t even acknowledge it—not the pain she’d inflicted or the scars she left behind. Instead, she stood there, unbothered by my confession as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“You were always so weak,” she said softly, each word cutting deeper than any blade ever could.

Weakness echoed in my mind—a haunting reminder of everything I had ever tried to escape. It felt like drowning in quicksand while she stood there with a smile on her face, enjoying every moment of my struggle.

“Shut up,” I hissed, fury clawing its way up from deep within me as I fought against her words.

But the more I fought against it, the more it settled into place—a truth I couldn't shake off: She had made me this way. The anger surged within me like wildfire; there was no denying that any longer.

Her laughter echoed in response—a sound devoid of warmth and filled instead with delight at my pain. And somehow, that was worse than any physical blow she could have delivered.

The battle between us raged on silently; no punches were thrown here—but it felt just as violent as any fight could be.

The breath left my lungs. My fists clenched. My body shook with a rage that threatened to consume me whole. I wanted to hit something—destroy everything in sight until there was nothing left but the remnants of my own chaos.

Then—

A voice cut through the air, sharp and furious.

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