Page 3 of Wicked Minds
Wrath directly aimed atme.
I don’t know what set him off, what specifically sparked this outpouring of emotion beyond his typical antipathy, but whatever it was, I couldfeelevery ounce of his strife in a way Ihadn’t before. It was all-consuming. More than one person can bear. I don’t know how it didn’t cripple him.
I’d wanted to help. Wanted to offer him some much-needed relief. I’d thought perhaps he could release it much like he had that day in the field. He’d been in a similar state then—enraged and rabid, and while he’d still been angry afterward, the beast had been sated.
Except yesterday wasn’t like last time.
And I didn’t pick up on the tells until it was too late.
Releasing a shuttering exhale, a shiver rushes down my spine as I recall the feel of the cold blade pressed against my skin.
I’d noticed his devolving before then, but that was the moment when my own anger spiked. The moment when my insecurities came barreling to the forefront, and I was reduced to the whimpering child of my past.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Defenseless.
I wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. Grayson may have changed, his actions volatile—but he wasn’t…isn’this father. However, I was…I am, terrified… of reverting back to that little girl, pressed up against her bed, wishing to be saved… to be seen… to be heard.
A fresh wave of fury blazes through my veins. At Grayson. At myself.
I amnotthat child anymore.
I won’t be ever again.
I refuse to be someone who will roll over and allow Grayson to take his anger out on.
I’m no one’s punching bag, and perhaps it’s time Grayson realized that.
Eyes blazing, I snap them open to see the reminder of Grayson’s rage painted on my skin. The canvas of tormentstrikes me as ironic, given that his father never left a physical mark. Although, I often wished he had because at least then it would have reflected the stain, the darkness each of his touches left on my soul.
My fingertips graze the mark on my neck, and pressing down, I wince as pain races along my nerves. I’d rather wear Grayson’s necklace of bruises, unbidden, unbound, and on display for the world to see.
Perhaps that’s why I find myself inexplicably drawn to these three unrepentant men. Each of them carries their own demons. Their darkness doesn’t hide behind false veneers. They let it out, unafraid to show the world the violence that lies beneath.
What you see is what you get—good or bad. There are no pretenses. If you don’t like what you see, then feel free to fuck right off.
I’ve borne the same mentality. I might keep the broken fragments tucked away, out of sight, but I’m not afraid to show the world that I’ve been changed by trauma. It’s not a weight Iwantto carry, but I do. Moreso, I accept it. It’s part of who I am. An integral piece that has formed the person I am today and has gotten me to this point in my life.
Turning away, I pull in a calming breath as I retrieve clothes from my closet that are all my own. After so long spent in only underwear or Logan’s clothing, it feels like another layer of protection to be wearing my own things.
A layer of protection against them.
More of a distance between reality and those lost days in their house.
By the time I towel-dry my hair and collapse onto the couch, my anger has fizzled out, and all I am is exhausted.
I look around my small, sparsely-furnished apartment, and despite wishing so many times that I was back here, I don’t feelany of the peace I expected to. There’s none of the comforts I desperately need. It just feels… cold. Silent. Empty.
Missing Royce’s quiet presence and Logan’s boisterous laugh.
As I sit here, I can’t stop the memories from playing on a timeless loop: Logan’s teasing, Royce’s droll remarks, and the hint of a smile that would occasionally play on his lips. Hell, even Grayson’s cutting remarks—although I could live without those
It leaves an ache in my chest that I have no right feeling.
A longing that scares me.
