Page 96 of The Wicked
Words.
They were simple alignments of letters to form something meaningless or meaningful, depending on how they were used.
You’d think a man like myself would be accustomed to taking things in stride.
But I was impressionable when it came to compliments, advice, or reprimands. I couldn’t help it. I was built that way.
It was probably abysmal that I had to share this idiosyncrasy with a clinical depression that I’d never bothered to treat since I was diagnosed years ago. It was the same illness my mother had. The same one my father had ignored.
When I got symptoms, I’d hoped to God that I hadn’t inherited it, seeing who she became down the years… I was scared of what I’d become with the kind of hand I was brought up with.
My childhood hadn’t been normal. It was replete with abuse, verbal, physical, and emotional.
I’d done things I would never forget or forgive myself for, things I had punished myself for.
But sometimes, the punishment was never enough. Nothing was ever enough.
Angelo would tell me to go for proper treatment, but there was no point in treating myself; I didn’t deserve to get better, not after everything I had done in the name of revenge. In the name ofcare.
Deep down, I knew I was just a sick bastard. I was delusional. I didn’t know consequences. I grew up learning to forget the meaning of that word. I didn’t care for useless emotions because I knew how my life started and how it would end. There was no point in building relationships or dwelling on something less than its worth.
There was no point to me.
Why was I stalling in the name of revenge… on the father who didn’t even give a shit, on a brother who hated me—on some false delusion of poetic justice. Did I even deserve that?
No one really needed me here. I was alone with the books most of the time anyway.
A waste of space and valuable oxygen just to fulfill a promise made to a dead sister who probably would have wished for my death if she were alive.
Until Zahra mentioned it about an hour ago, I didn’t realize all I was doing was stalling. Because even when it came to finishing this, I still couldn’t do it.
How meaningless could I get?
I shook my head, gripping the steering wheel tightly, dark thoughts spinning and dancing around my head.
They meant business this time. They were merciless. Uncontainable. I needed to be alone.
I neared the drugstore, itching to get out of the car—away from the woman beside me.
In my periphery, Zahra’s head rested against the window, but her eyes were trained on me.
I should have known.
I should have known she’d alter my streak from the moment she opened her mouth when we first met. I always stayed away from things that drew unwarranted emotion. Things that made me feel. But her… this woman.
First, she provoked curiosity in that torture room; anger in the boardroom; irritation and competitiveness with the chess game; regret on the rooftop; lust in the supply closet and theexhibit; impulsiveness in the car chase; desire, denial, and remorse in the woods… care in that shed… then acceptance and realization by the roadside.
She made me feel useless emotions; somehow, I’d grown comfortable thinking I’d found someone like me. The more unrestricted, open-minded version of me. If I hadn’t returned to find her after the amateur kidnapping, I was almost positive she’d have found a way out of that position becauseIwould have found a way.
Somewhere between the supply closet and the shed, I’d thought maybe I wasn’t the only one without morals.
It turned out I was being delusional: evenIwas fucked up to someone likeher.
“I could totally be your friend if you stop trying to kill me.”Her voice echoed in my head.
Guess now that wasn’t an option.
I pulled into the parking lot by the drugstore just out of town, turning off the engine.
