"Since you don't know how to shut your fucking mouth, I'll fill it with my cum to shut you up," Kol seethes, looking down at me like I was dirt on his shoe.
I loved the way it made me feel. The way he made me feel. He looked at me like I was a whor...
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It's been a week since I've been in California. I spent every single day in my apartment with my Mother coming over every day and rearranging my apartment every time she was here.
"I thought you gave up this ridiculous art time waster a long time ago, Maya," Mother says, skimming her eyes over the painting I completed a couple of days ago.
I painted a girl sitting in a room, pitch black with her crying blood.
My therapist said it was good to find a way to express my emotions healthily.
Apparently shoving your emotions deep inside you and then suddenly just breaking down out of nowhere, isn't healthy.
"No.....clearly not Mother, seeing as I have a whole art set up right next to the window," I say dryly, and she looks me up and down, then throws the painting back in place.
The painting falls and the edge of the glass table pierces a hole in it.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!
I rush over to the painting and take it from the edge. Mother looks at me with a disdainful look and rolls her eyes. "Darling, it's a piece of manilla cardboard. If it's so important, remake it," she says and then moves to my kitchen. I sit there on the floor as she re-organizes my spice drawer again. It's not like I can fucking cook, why do I even need it?
Maybe I'll find a man who can cook.
The sounds of her slamming the containers down over and over again irritated me. I got off the floor and stomped to the kitchen.
"Maya Anneliese St. Martin, why are your feet so goddamn heavy?" she glares at me and then turns back to her task.
I clear my throat before speaking.
"Mom, I thought that the point of me having an apartment instead of living on campus was so that I wasn't cramped living with other people and could have my personal space?"
She lifts her eyebrow and looks at me skeptically. "Yes, that is correct," she says, still mainly focusing on the spices. I watch her as she puts them in a specific order, then takes them down. She was rearranging the entire thing like some never-ending cycle of madness.
"Will you just stop it with the fucking spices, Mother," I yell, but throw a hand over my mouth after I realize I just cursed at my Mother. I've been cursing since I was 12 years old and I've never cursed at my Mother. Her hands stop and she looks straight ahead. I hold my breath and look at her, waiting for impact. Like I was about to get hit in the head with a fucking spaceship or something.
"Maya. Are you suggesting that I've been in your apartment too much?" she asks, calmly.
