Juliette
He warned me we were doomed from the start, and I should have listened. But some fires burn too hot to resist.
Now, I'm trapped in a vicious cycle of desire, tangled up in Areston's dangerous world. Every kiss, every touch pulls me deeper...
She lurches forward. A desperate sob escapes her lips, and she stumbles. The phone slips from her grasp, hitting the floor seconds before her knees do.
"What do I do now?" Her quivering voice repeatedly keeps questioning me.
Her once impeccable appearance now lies in disarray—her hair a tangled mess, makeup smudged, and cocktail dress torn at the waist. This is a stark departure from the refined aristocrat I've always known as my mother.
"Oh lord, what do I do now?" She weeps, desperately shaking the body of the unconscious bastard to wake him up.
Bruises mar her arms and chin. There's a severe cut on her forehead. Blood is dripping down the side of her face from it. But she doesn't care. She never cares. She has always accepted how this piece of shit has treated her. The scumbag she claims to be in love with is still breathing. He's not dead. I wish he were. The vase I crashed on his head is lying intact next to him, smeared by the blood that's pooling at the back of his head.
I have failed to protect her. I should've dealt with him long ago. He has been emotionally abusing her for the past three years. If I'd taken matters into my own hands earlier, today's physical assault might never have happened.
I've always wanted to save her, but she didn't want me to. She was happy being the victim. But what good son would unquestioningly heed his mother's insistence not to interfere and watch her suffer silently? I should've defended her honor much sooner. I shouldn't have waited this long.
The shattered window has turned the room as bone-chilling as the snow-covered Matterhorn ski paradise outside. Despite the freezing atmosphere, I am drenched in sweat as I stand in the corner, jaw clenched and fists curled. Her reaction has left me in utter disbelief. She's still concerned for him. He's controlling her even from his unconscious state.
"Wake up, please. Lord, please don't let him die!" She cradles the filthy abuser in her lap and pats his cheek in a futile attempt to wake him up.
I do not believe in god, but if there exists one, then I wish this fucker dies.
The shrill sound of my alarm clock yanks me out of my sleep. I drag myself to sit up, the sheets tangled around me, a cold sweat clinging to my skin. Nightmares can be disturbing for people. They force them to live an experience they'd rather not. I do not share that sentiment. Mine are mostly dredged-up memories from real shit I went through. They don't scare or surprise me. Instead, they make me furious. So damn furious for not being the devil I am today back then.
