Unstoppable Love

Chapter 2 Santi

Santiago sat on the edge of the bed, his hands trembling slightly as he stared at the message on his phone. The words were sharp, cutting through the morning calm like a knife. His mother's voice, even through a simple text, held the same venom that had haunted him for as long as he could remember.

We need to talk. You're wasting your life. Come home.

His chest tightened, a familiar sense of dread curling in his stomach. He had known this was coming—his mother always had a way of reeling him back in just when he started to feel like he was escaping her grasp. But it didn't make it any easier.

He glanced over at Lily, still asleep beside him, her face peaceful and content. The warmth of her body against his was a comfort, but it also made the guilt gnaw at him even more. She had given him so much—love, care, a sense of purpose—and here he was, letting his past pull him back into the darkness.

He slipped out of bed as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb her. His mind was already racing, trying to figure out how he would face his mother, how he could stand to listen to her cutting words without breaking down. He dressed quickly, pulling on a simple shirt and jeans, trying to steel himself for the inevitable confrontation.

As he left the villa, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was leaving something important behind.

The drive to his mother's house felt like a slow descent into hell. The further he got from the woman's villa, the more the anxiety clawed at his insides. By the time he pulled up to the familiar, cold, gray building, his hands were shaking uncontrollably. Sat in his car outside his mother's house, the engine idling as he stared blankly at the dashboard. He replayed the text that had sent him spiralling.

We need to talk. You're wasting your life. Come home.

He knew he shouldn't have come, knew that nothing good would come of this meeting. But her words had always had a hold on him, pulling him back no matter how far he tried to run. A lifetime of her cutting remarks, her cold indifference, had left scars that hadn't healed. And now, sitting here, those scars felt fresh, raw, and painfully exposed.

Taking a deep breath, he turned off the car and stepped out, each step towards the front door feeling heavier than the last. His mother opened it before he could knock, her expression as cold and sharp as the air around them.

"Come in," she said curtly, turning and walking inside without waiting for him to follow.

He stepped into the house, the familiar scent of polished wood and expensive perfume hitting him like a wave. It was the same as it had always been—immaculate, elegant, and suffocating.

She led him to the sitting room, where she gestured for him to sit on the pristine white couch. He did so, feeling like a child being summoned to the principal's office. She sat across from him, her back straight, her eyes boring into him with the same disdain he had seen a thousand times before.

"You're throwing your life away," she began, her voice as cold as ice. "Running around, indulging in your vices. Is this what you want for yourself? To be nothing?"

Her words hit him like a physical blow, each one cutting deeper than the last. He tried to muster a defense, to tell her that she was wrong, that he was happy, but the words stuck in his throat. Her gaze was unforgiving, her disappointment palpable, and he felt himself shrinking under it, becoming that scared, insecure boy she had always made him feel like.

"You're a failure," she continued, her tone unrelenting. "You'll never amount to anything if you keep this up. You're wasting your potential, and it's pathetic."

He could feel the anger and shame boiling inside him, but he couldn't find the strength to fight back. She had always known how to twist the knife, to find the places where he was most vulnerable, and this time was no different.

When she finally stopped, dismissing him with a wave of her hand as if he were nothing more than a nuisance, he stood up on shaky legs, muttering a barely audible goodbye. The moment he was outside, the cold air hit him, but it did nothing to numb the pain inside.

He didn't know where he was going as he drove away, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. His mother's words echoed in his head, a relentless litany of everything he feared about himself. He needed to escape, to drown out the noise in his head, to forget her voice and the way it made him feel like he was nothing.

He drove until the city lights became a blur, until he saw the familiar neon glow of the clubs he used to frequent. It was instinct that guided him now, the need to lose himself, to disappear into the crowd and let the drugs and alcohol take away the sting of his mother's words.

Inside the club, the music was deafening, the bass reverberating through his body as he pushed his way to the bar. He ordered a drink, downing it in one go, the burn of the alcohol a welcome distraction from the turmoil inside him. But it wasn't enough. He needed more—more alcohol, more distraction, more oblivion.

He let himself get lost in the crowd, the press of bodies around him pushing him further into the haze he so desperately sought. The music, the lights, the alcohol—they all blended together into a blur that made it easier to forget, to ignore the voice in his head telling him he was worthless.

At some point, a girl approached him—blonde, with a wild look in her eyes that matched the chaos in his own heart. She offered him something, a pill that he swallowed without thinking. He didn't care what it was, as long as it helped him forget.

The night passed in a blur of flashing lights, pounding music, and a relentless pursuit of numbness. The girl stayed close, her touch lingering on his arm, her breath hot against his neck as she whispered promises of more distraction. He didn't resist when she led him out of the club and back to her place. It was all the same to him—a way to escape, to drown out the emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole.