"Are you wet enough?" He questions with hooded eyes.
I nod curtly. "Only the sound of your voice and my pussy jumps in excitement."
"Good. Turn around." He orders as both hands grip my waist, flipping me around before I can argue. "Sit on it and go...
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I did it.
I won, didn't I?
Then why do I feel so hollow? Why do I feel like I've lost? Why do I feel like a failure?
Have I truly won, or have I dug the dark hole deeper than it was?
I have always gotten love like poison, even from my own family. With my mother, loving me even when she couldn't love herself. Holding my hands even when she couldn't hold her own hand. Saving my life even when she couldn't save herself.
Her love was poison.
Then my sister. It would be better if we remained enemies, it would be better if she died my rival, but no, she had to show me a weakness. She showed me that in all of her hatred, there was still love for me, stored somewhere in her heart.
In her last minutes, I witnessed that love. And that love too, was poison.
With my family, their love is a poison of guilt. The guilt, like venom, seeps into my bloodstreams, taking hostage every breath, every blink, every word, every emotion—the entirety of my being.
My inability to properly look my children in the eye is the product of that guilt.
My son is awake—a thing to be thankful for, and yet, my insides are ripping apart. He's looking at me coldly, like a stranger in a stranger's house, in a strange place.
Anger, unmistakable rage, swirls in his mismatched orbs. He's weak, and yet, his eyes are so strong they could melt me any minute.
He is angry.
I am guilty.
And my daughter, she stares at me with indifference. She observes me. Awe, anger, loathe, confusion—her mismatched orbs are raging with different emotions.
I am guilty.
Perhaps they blame me, perhaps I'm the villain in this story. I'm the one who has caused them so much pain. I'm the one who put their father in a state of unconsciousness. I am guilty of it all.
If they blame me, if they don't, I am guilty of it all.
Seven months. That is how long it has taken, and yet, my husband is yet to come awake. Everyday since I returned from taking my revenge on the people who called themselves my blood, I sit by Matteo's side, my fingers intertwined with his, my lips moving in silent chants.
It's laughable, how this reminds me of the night I cut open Matteo to retrieve a bullet which had been buried in his abdominal region. This reminds me of how I waited by his corner, anticipating when he awoke—the commencement of our new beginning.
A new beginning which never came.
It unnerves me. Because once again, I'm anticipating that new beginning.
