Page 78 of Devotion

My brow tenses, and I set the mug aside. “You came in here and went through my things? What gives you the fucking right? I’m not a child. I don’t need you checking up on me.”

Un-fucking-believable.

“I’m only trying to help you, Layla.”

I take a deep breath to settle myself. “Like you tried helping me before, right?”

Confused, he shoots a sharp look my way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I hold his gaze, wanting him to hear every word. “Experimenting on me is not the same as helping me.”

His eyes widen, and as tears burn in mine, I wish I could take back what I’ve said. Not because I don’t think he needs to hear it, but because I could’ve been kinder.

He finally looks away, and I hate that the sadness he’s now shouldering was placed there bymyfuck up.

“Layla, I’ve only ever done what I’ve felt is best for you. Are there things I wish I could take back? You bet your ass there are, but I’ve only ever tried to protect you.”

A tear slips down my cheek. “Dad… there areyearsof my life I can’t recall. Memories of you, friends… Mom. All of it. Gone.”

Guilt sweeps over him as I stare.

“I know, I… I thought I was doing what was right. I saw things in you that…”

He trails off there, but I know what he’s thinking.

“You saw things in me that reminded you of Mom.”

His silence confirms that I’m right. Not that I needed further confirmation. The meds, being forced to attend Catholic school, endless trips to the psychologist over the years—those things were all the proof I needed.

“I think you should go.”

He lingers a moment after I speak, maybe hoping I’ll change my mind and want to talk shit out, but I don’t. I’m done. With everything.

“If you need something orsomeone…you know where to find me.”

I nearly call out to him as he’s leaving. Mostly because I don’t believe I’ve said all that needs to be said, but I let him go, realizing I can’t be here right now. It’s starting to feel like the walls are closing in on me.

Swiping a pair of sweats from the floor, I pull them on and grab my keys. I’ve got no place in mind to go, but I can’t stay here a second longer.

As I back out of the garage, I catch a glimpse of my father’s silhouette standing at the back door, watching. He thinks he knows me, thinks he knows what I need, but after tonight, I don’t think he’s ever felt more like a stranger.

Damien

Diego sings Motown hits while he showers.

Never would’ve guessed that.

It’s been a solid fifteen minutes since he turned on the water, and my patience wears thin.

Listening.

Waiting.

Finally, the faucet twists, and I smile when the next sound I hear is the shower curtain rings racing across the rod as he steps out.

I’ve checked and double checked that everything’s in place and all set to go. There’s nothing left to do but wait for him to step out of the bathroom, then… showtime.

The bathroom door creeps open and light seeps into the bedroom. I stare at him, this piece of filth the grave has been calling out to like a starved lover. Tonight, Death will be one step closer to swallowing whole the one it craves.

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