But the second I stepped foot in my house, the barrier I’d put up crumbled to a million pieces, and I sank to the floor and sobbed.

The pain! Oh, my fucking god, the pain was too much. I curled up in the corner and cried, wishing more than anything for it to go.

Crying used to be cathartic. It used to help. Like bleeding an animal dry, I used to feel the pain slowly seep out of me until I was empty of all of it. But it didn’t work this time. Instead, the tears just kept falling, and the knife-like pain in my heart twisted, leaving me breathless and quaking.

He was responsible for the hell I went through for nine whole months, but that was nothing compared to the hell I was feeling at this revelation. How could he do this to me? How could he damage me like this? How could he look me in the eye and tell me he loved me? Everything that had been said to me started to make sense.

He likes broken things.

You’re exquisite. A work of art.

Are you aware of how beautiful you are to me?

I love different.

I stood up and climbed the stairs. Anger and pain merged and had me shaking with adrenaline. I slammed open the door of my bedroom and grabbed the sketchpad off the dresser. I tore the pages of him out and ripped them to pieces before flinging the book across the room. I felt savage. I wanted nothing more than to rage and smash things to pieces in the hopes of materializing the pain. As if making it tangible could somehow rid me of it.

I swiped the make-up off the dresser and pushed the television off the stand. I tore apart my room bit by bit, screaming out loud how much I hated him. How much I wanted him to die.

And then when all was screamed and done, I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my miserable reflection. All those days learning to accept my appearance, learning to move on and embrace my scars – it had been all for nothing.

I touched the left side of my face, tracing over the harsh lines, remembering the pain I felt in that alleyway. The panic attacks, the depression, the fear that made me throw up every morning and sob until my breaths turned short and fast and my heart constricted…

All because of him.

“Why?” I whispered to myself.

It wasn’t why to one thing in particular. It was so many why’s that ran through my mind too fast to stop and analyse.

Why had I chosen him to kiss that day on the train?

Why did I give him my wallet?

Why didn’t I value myself throughout life enough to avoid that man in the bar?

Why did I agree to see him in the club?

Why did I let him into my house?

Why did I sleep with him?

Why did I fall in love with him?

Why did I believe him when he told me he would never lie?

And why the hell was I blaming myself for all of this?

This was his fault, right? This was all on him, yet somehow I felt like I’d contributed to it just as much. I willingly went along with everything he had thrown my way, ignoring the dark part of him and choosing to live in ignorance because of a selfish need to feel loved.

I played with fire, and it finally set me ablaze.

I just never thought it’d hurt this much.

*****

I sat on the ground of my bedroom for who knows how long. The sun’s rays disappeared, casting darkness into every corner of the room. My body continued to shake, my eyes ached, and my stomach growled from hunger.

Oh, how the world could change in such a short amount of time!

Its unpredictability was impressive, because I truly thought I had my road in life all mapped out. I expected potholes, sure, but I never anticipated sinkholes big enough to swallow me whole.

“Claire?”

The bedroom door creaked open, and I looked up in my flustered state to see Emily standing in the doorway. She stared at me with this tender concern that I wanted nothing more than to rip off. Had she hurt me too in some way I didn’t know about? Had Mom? Had anyone I’d ever gotten close enough to misused my trust and gotten away with it?

“Go away,” I told her hoarsely.

“What’s happened?”

I shook my head in response and felt the angry tears drop. Where were they coming from? What part of me had this endless supply of tears that refused to turn off? My face felt raw from it all.

I heard her footsteps in the room. She dropped down next to me and put an arm around my shoulder.

“Claire, please talk to me,” she pleaded. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

I looked at her. The softest blue eyes I’d ever seen stared back at me.

No, I thought, she’d never hurt me. Nor would Mom. They weren’t monsters. They’d never used me. They’d never want me to hate myself.

“My heart hurts,” I simply told her.

She took me into her arms and I cried, feeling it come from the shattered soul of my being. I had fallen so hard, and from the start, no one was ever going to be there to catch me.

I was broken.            

Chapter Twenty

Never make Ben your enemy

How do you function when you felt dead on the inside?

For the first few days I didn’t wake up with the need to puke. I woke up and cried instead. Interesting what a broken heart could do to you, replacing the old wounds from before with fresher, deeper ones.

I went through every moment I’d spent with him. How completely in the dark I’d been. All those days he answered calls in separate rooms. All the times he ducked out for errands. What sort of morbid things had he been up to?

I thought of all the times he kissed me, felt me, and held me close to him with burning passion. What did those moments really mean to him?

I remembered the look in his eyes every time they met my scars. The way he was always desperate to touch them. His fascination for them should have been the warning sign I recognized early on, right? I should have realized how unhealthy and obsessive-like it was for him.

But he blinded me.

Ben wasn’t the best thing to ever happen to me. He was the worst, most vile thing to ever walk into my life. He was a monster hiding in plain sight, and he was capable of all kinds of evil. He intentionally hurt me. He wanted me to suffer before he acted like the gallant saviour, reappearing in my life like he gave a shit.

How stupid of me!

As the hours passed, that depression morphed into bitterness that bred anger as strong as my love for him was. What was that anger capable of doing?

Without thinking, I grabbed his apartment key and left the house with one motive in mind: find out all about the man I’d been sleeping next to.