✓ GREEDY HEARTS | JAY

35 - The Hate That Bleeds

JAY'S POV

I do not really know whether I have survived or descended into a living nightmare. The pain in my shoulder doesn't even begin to compare to the ache in my chest. The blade that pierced through my flesh might as well have penetrated my very soul. 

I'm not thinking straight. I can't. Not when the woman I believed I knew, trusted, and loved has made me into the foul I swore I'd never become. The disbelief lingers, and I find myself replaying the moment she pushed that blade into my shoulder over and over in my mind. It's a surreal kind of pain—physical and emotional, each making sure that the other is not forgotten. And all I'm left with is the bitter taste of betrayal and the echoes of her words, haunting me in the dimly lit corners of my consciousness.

"For fuck's sake," I hear Jungwon mutter under his breath while he drags me out of the base, which somehow, is as silent as a graveyard at this hour. I don't dare look behind. I don't dare hope Y/N didn't just turn her back on me. But a part of me, a small and stubborn part, still clings to the hope that there might be an explanation—a reason that makes sense of the inexplicable. 

We manage to leave the place and he helps me get into the car after what feels like an eternity. He gets into the car and starts the car, and before I even realize it, we're driving through the quiet streets of the city. "The mansion-"

"Just shut your mouth and fucking focus on staying conscious. If you pass out on me, I won't hesitate to leave you by the side of the road." His words are devoid of any warmth but I know Jungwon and I can't blame him, he warned me, after all. So I don't argue. I can't bring myself to care about where I am or where I go. "I told you it's not a good idea to go there. See what happened? Baek Y/N is a fucking menace. Just utter the word and I'll have your men hunt her down until she's brought back in chains."

I shake my head, trying to clear the fog that clouds my thoughts. "No," I mumble, my voice hoarse. "I won't let you hurt her."

I can hear him scoff, and when I glance at him, his grip on the steering wheel is tightening. "Hurt her? She just stabbed you, Jay. What more does she need to do for you to realize she's not worth it? She could have killed you. You should be thanking whatever gods you believe in that you're still breathing."

"She wouldn't kill me. Stabbing me in the shoulder is not the action of someone aiming to kill." I sigh, trying my best not to move so much so the wound doesn't worsen. "She was about to cry, Jungwon. I'm pretty sure she didn't want to do it, or at least, she didn't want to kill me. There's something more going on."

"You're delusional," He mutters, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "But fine, you want to play the hero and save the damsel in distress. We can go back to find her, and you can have your heartfelt conversation while I try not to vomit." I don't laugh at that. I would have laughed if I didn't have a wound that screamed in protest every time the car hit a bump.

The family's doctor steps inside along with Jungwon and he starts assessing the wound. He mumbles medical jargon under his breath, and I catch snippets of phrases like "clean wound" and "no vital organs affected." After cleaning and stitching the injury, he advises rest and refraining from strenuous activities. I nod absentmindedly, my thoughts elsewhere.

As Jungwon leaves the room, likely to give orders to increase security or whatever he deems necessary, I sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at my hands. When I make my way to the mirror, my bandaged shoulder almost looks like a work of art, a canvas painted with the reminder of a betrayal etched in red. But it doesn't make me hate Y/N, if anything, I'm one lucky man to have her cross my path, even if it's in the most unexpected and painful ways.

Now that I admitted my love for her, I don't think anything she does or anything that happens between us can truly extinguish that flame. In the back of my mind, I hope this wound never heals, because I love her enough to carry the scars she left on me. 

I wonder what she's up to. I wonder if she's crying the tears she was so desperately trying to hold back. I wonder if stabbing me was as painful for her as it was for me. The questions linger, haunting my thoughts, as I pour myself a glass of whiskey, needing something to numb the ache in my soul. I cannot stop thinking of her, even when the alcohol fails to blur the edges of my thoughts.

I don't often allow myself to think of my past, but tonight, the pain in my shoulder is a trigger that unlocks the doors to a past I've desperately tried to keep locked away. My whole life had been sculpted by the hands of the man I call father—the man who ended up being the architect of my deepest traumas. 

I remember that night as if it were yesterday, the memories etched into the fabric of my being like scars that never fade. The car that almost cost me my life, the cold wind biting through the shattered windows, the feeling of betrayal seeping into my bones when I learned, for the first time, that family is not always synonymous with trust. The first time I realized that the color red wasn't just the color of the flowers my mother loved, but also the color of the blood that stained my hands on that night. 

The memories are vivid, and I can almost smell the acrid scent of gasoline, and taste the metallic tang of fear on my tongue. The screeching tires, the blinding headlights, the sickening crunch of metal colliding—it was all my father's doing. But I thought at least if he knew I was in that car, he wouldn't order the driver to crash into the car where those two innocent souls perished. That was the naive hope of a young boy who hadn't fully grasped the twisted reality of the world he was born into.

I take another sip of the whiskey, letting the burn dull the raw edges of the memories. It's a pain that never really goes away, a wound that refuses to heal. And tonight, as I sit here nursing a wound that I don't really want to heal, I can still remember their eyes, the way they were staring at me with both fear and confusion. Their eyes haunt me, accusing me, as if I was the one who pulled the strings of that tragic night. But I was a child. I was just a child and yet, the weight of my father's sins pressed upon my shoulders as if I were a man.

The glass in my hand breaks and I'm pulled back from that nightmare to witness the whiskey blend with the blood that trickles down from the cuts in my palm. It's red, too red, like the color I've tried to erase from my life, from my very soul.

I hate red. And I hate the monster that wears it like a cloak.