Our fallen souls [EN] (High Enough) : VOLUME 1

21 - Blake |PART TWO|

A wave of disgust runs through me from head to toe, but I remain motionless.

"You wanted to talk to me, apparently. I'm here now," I retort in a broken voice, fighting the emotions that threaten to overwhelm me.

I waver slightly, caught between the urge to smash his face in on the spot or to simply walk away from here, to leave this asshole in his shitty fucking universe.

"Come on," he orders me authoritatively, leaving me standing on the stoop.

I straighten my head, inhaling deeply to try to calm my raw fucking nerves. The familiar smell of home hits me hard. It's always the same fucking smell. A mixture of flowers, I think. I've never known which ones.

I enter the house, slamming the door behind me with a defiant kick. I take the time to observe the interior, scrutinizing every detail. He's removed all the family photos that used to adorn the walls and furniture. He's redone all the wallpaper. The living room walls are painted red with gold stripes, a fucking kitschy mix that perfectly reflects his shitty personality. He's sitting on the big black leather sofa, facing the fireplace, an image of false comfort. I stare at his hand, firmly holding his glass. The same hand that hit me, beat me, broke me for fucking years. His knuckles are still marked by the blows he used to give me.

With an instinctive gesture, I pull down the sleeves of my black sweatshirt, pulling them up to cover my hands, as if to hide the invisible marks of my fucking suffering.

"Why did you leave the bar?" he asks me abruptly, his voice tinged with detestable arrogance as he takes a sip of his drink.

I stand behind him, unable to see his face, but I feel his whole fucking presence suffocating me. "I didn't want to be dependent on you anymore. And if you must know, business is going well for me," I retort coldly, trying to keep my fucking composure.

"So much the better," he replies with a calmness that doesn't reassure me in the least. He sets his glass down on the table with a sharp clatter, then stands up abruptly, advancing towards me. He sways slightly, betraying the presence of alcohol in his blood. My heart stops for a moment, but I hold my head high. It's time to put a fucking stop to this.

"Tell me, why did you come here?" he asks, fixing my face with a bloodshot stare. I, too, hold his gaze, my eyes burning with determination. A nervous smile stretches my lips. "I want it over with now," I say, my words tinged with audacity and hatred.

He nearly falls over, too drunk to keep his balance.

"That's for turning me into an asshole," I spit through my teeth, my fist smashing into his face again.

A second blow goes off, then a third, my anger gushing from every fucking pore of my skin.

"That's for all the beatings you've given me," I continue, my voice full of rage and pain. He collapses under the blows, and a soothing sensation invades me, as if every fucking blow I inflict on him frees me from an unbearable weight.

He stands up, holding his jaw, his eyes full of hatred.

"You little shit," he screams as he hurls himself at me, violence dripping from his every move. He grabs me by the collar of my sweater and slams me against the wall. With one hand, he supports me, while with the other, he pounds my face with violent blows. I pray that his fucking blows will be fatal, that the suffering will finally end. Because that's what I came here for. Now that I've dared to return every fucking blow he's given me, I can die in peace.

"You can go, I've got nothing left to lose," I spit at him, my nose shattered, blood pouring from my mouth and nose.

He raises his fist, ready to strike the final blow, and I look at him with blurred eyes, proof of the violence he's inflicted on me. My head, my nose, my fucking jaw hurt, and I feel like I'm reliving a fucking flashback, plunging back into a past of pain, terror, and fear. I'm going to die right here, right now, in the house where it all began, where I screamed my fucking pain, where I grew up, breathed, played. I told you it would be stupid to die at the hands of your own father. In the end, I'm going to die where it all began.