Bad Boy Blues(98)

I think I’m going to throw up.

I’m so cold and the only thing warm in my hands is the garment he gave me.

I don’t know how long I stand there, trembling, staring at his door, still in shock. Humiliated to my very soul.

Then I hear a crash and a bang and a deep growl.

It somehow wakes me up, gets me moving.

I clutch his t-shirt to my chest and by sheer muscle memory, locate a powder room a few doors down. I get in, let the sheet drop to the floor and put his shirt on.

There’s a mirror to my right but I’m afraid to look at it. I don’t want to see my damaged, vandalized body.

Bending down, I pick up the sheet and wrap it around my shoulders.

Then I start walking, looking at my feet. I jump when I hear more crashes, a glass breaking.

They match the sounds of chaos inside my body.

I don’t remember climbing down the stairs or walking through the sleepy mansion, until I find myself in the servant’s wing and a light comes on.

It’s harsh and I squint my eyes against it.

“Cleo?”

It’s Maggie.

“What happened? Are you okay? You weren’t in your room.”

Still shaking, I look at her with tear-clogged eyes. “I was in h-his.”

Her eyes go wide as she realizes what I mean by his. “Master Zach’s?”

I nod.

She grabs my shoulders. “Did he… did he do something to you?”

“He broke my heart.”

Suddenly, I remember what that fortune teller, Dove, told me. He might close the palm holding my heart and strangle it with his fingers.

I think he just did that.

He murdered my heart with his bare hands.

“What?”

“But I guess I broke his rules first.”

“What? What rules? What are you talking about?”

I look at Maggie. “I fell in love with him.”

Her face crumples in sadness and pity. “You stupid, stupid girl.”

Then, she walks me to the on-call room I was supposed to be in tonight.

With each step, I keep thinking, I’m a stupid, stupid girl.





I snatch the notebook buried under the mattress, the one I’ve been writing her name in, and throw it against the glass window, growling.

The thump isn’t satisfying.

So I throw the chair against the wall next.

Then the desk.

The dresser, my backpack, the pillows, the sheets, the lamp.

She doesn’t get it, does she?

If I don’t have anger, if I don’t have my revenge, my hate, then what do I have? Where’s the fucking justice for all that they have done to me?

I’m both the witness and the victim of all the crimes they’ve committed. If I move on, then all of the bad shit I went through, all of it would just go away.

They’re off the hook, then, for fucking me up. For making me feel small and worthless and miserable.

Right?

Wrong.

They’ll never be off the hook. I’ll never forgive them.

Fuck moving on. Fuck being the bigger person.

I throw anything and everything that I can get my hands on until all that’s left is destruction.

And her smell of sugar.

I’ve always loved you…

Her voice causes a pain in my chest. It’s so intense that I come down on my knees.

I don’t want her love.

I don’t.

Then why the fuck does it hurt so much?





He’s smoking.

I don’t think he’s smoked ever since I stole his pack. He finally accepted the tobacco chewing tablets I’d bought for him. Though I haven’t seen him use them more than a couple of times.

I haven’t ever seen Zach in a suit before, either.

He’s wearing one now.

It’s black and crisp, those pants and that jacket, with a white shirt underneath. The collar is open and probably a couple of top buttons too.

It’s hard to tell from here. There are a lot of people between him and me.

The ballroom is packed.

It’s another party; it’s Mr. and Mrs. Prince’s anniversary. A real celebration of love, what with all the red roses and crystal hearts for décor.

They have been planning this party for weeks. So it wasn’t a surprise, but still, I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched with all the love that’s being blatantly displayed.

Funny, how one night can change everything.

One phone call might mean your parents are dead and three little words could get you kicked out of a room, in the middle of the night, all naked.

I spy Mrs. Prince in the distance, chatting with a group of heavily decorated ladies. Heavily and expensively. She herself is sporting a rose-colored gown, again the color of love, looking like a million bucks.

Looking new and shiny and most importantly, healthy.

Apparently, make-up can hide a lot of things. Though it can’t hide how frail she looks. How bony and how, when she smiles, her artificially made-up eyes appear glassy. But I guess these people are not looking.

No one here cares about a woman who’s shrinking and disappearing with every event, and a girl with blue hair whose eyes might look a tad bit puffier than what’s normal for human beings.

To my credit, I’ve managed to be calm and not break down in the middle of the room like I want to.