𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

𝟑𝟏 | 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚

... THE PRESENT ...

"Do you want to talk about it?" Otto asked kindly when we were far enough away from school. I didn't even have to take my eyes off the road to see that he looked like an older brother whose sister had just had an argument with her boyfriend.

"And what exactly should I talk about?" I snapped at him, acknowledging my own irritation. I swallowed dryly and tried to get rid of the lump in my throat. "About how we stole someone's car for the second time, or about the fact that we just went on a path from which neither of us has to come back alive?" I shuddered with anger.

"You know exactly what I mean," Otto said, somehow being able not to lose his patience with me. Gently, he touched my hand put on the steering wheel, and nodded at the approaching gas station sign. "Stop, we should change. I'll drive, you rest for now." Before I could open my mouth and protest, he added: "It's not a request but an order."

For this time, I let him win, and obediently sit down in the passenger seat trying to avoid eye contact. Thank God he was a good driver and rather tried to keep an eye on the road than to pay any attention to me. He probably knew I needed time to be alone.

But was it what I really needed? Did I feel the need to be alone just to be able to play around with Leo's words like a broken record? Did I want to be hurt by them over and over again? Or all I needed was one hug from the person I cared about?

I was sick of myself. If only my father saw me now, or at least if he could read my thoughts... He would surely consider whether I deserve to be called his daughter. Look at you, you're so poor, pathetic, Lucifer's voice said in my head. You're acting like it's the end of the world just because someone hurt your feelings. Just because you're helpless and you can't do anything. When will you finally stop pitting yourself and start acting the way I taught you?

Tears began to burn in my eyes. I felt the need to get everything out of me – by crying. This was not something my father taught me. His lessons included working with a gun, fighting... not weeping like a little kid.

I don't even remember the last time I've cried. When I was little, my mother used to say to me that crying was not a sign of weakness, but it meant that we were strong for a long time... Is that it? Was I strong long enough to let all the hard feelings come out? Because I feel like my pain has just begun. It will be worse, and I couldn't allow it to rise to the surface, otherwise, it could eat me from the outside as well, not just from the inside.

The pressure on my chest increased. Everything I felt now was trying to get through a thin layer of skin. Slowly, my throat began to tighten, my whole body tingled with the urge to scream for life. And then... a hot drop fell on my cold cheek and set it on fire. What would Lucifer say to my tears?

"Your hands are bleeding, but the blood means you're alive," he used to say.

Is it the same with blood as it is with tears? Are tears just salty proof that our hearts are still beating?