His Forbidden Soulmate

Chapter 12 (Part One)

Freya

"Here's another hamburger," my grandaunt said, putting more on my plate.

My mouth was loaded with food; it was difficult to tell her I didn't want anymore. I was on my third hamburger.

"No, I'm good," I finally managed to tell her.

"Are you sure you've eaten your last burger, as it is your first?" Zira retorted.

A great feeling of sadness swept over me. I reached down for a napkin to wipe the remainder of the food from my mouth.

I had problems eating too much; I knew I did. Caging my feelings inside, at the age of ten, I learned I would often eat sweets or crave food whenever I felt down. Thanks to my weird and strong metabolism, what I eat doesn't seem to show.

"I'm going up to my room now," I said, pulling back my chair.

I felt mortified that I was eating like I was alone in my room, not realizing that I wasn't. I guess when you always eat alone, it feels like you always are.

"Was it something I said that offends you?" Zira asked.

As I was about to say no, I burst into tears.

"I'm sorry." I immediately ran upstairs to my room.

"Freya," Grandma called.

I went to my room and locked myself in. My back turned against the closed door, and I slid down onto the floor, weeping.

I thought my mom would care, knowing she blamed me for my dad leaving her. I knew she heard it on the phone, but she didn't care to call.

Freya," I heard Grandma say outside my bedroom.

"I need to be alone now," I told her.

"Just know that your grandma and I are here for you," she told me before heading back downstairs.

My head turned to my mom's old study desk, and I spotted a red lighter. I leered at it as a sinful thought to burn myself with it. It pressured me. I turned my head aside, refusing to, but the thought of doing so never left me. I eventually rushed for it and sat back down on the floor, examining its red bottom and the blacktop of it in my hands. My thumb ran over it as I created flame three times. I pulled up the long sleeve of my sweater and positioned the lighter under the left wrist of my hand, while all care of rejecting to hurt myself had vanished. I lit the lighter. The yellow flames under my skin became hotter and hotter until I couldn't bear it anymore. It dropped from my hand, and I held my hand tightly, scared of the scar I gave myself. A scar I'll never forget. I angrily pulled down the sleeve, concealing it, now blaming my mom for my action. What I did to myself was her fault. She made me burn myself.