Page 168 of Brutal Prince

The opposite of a starving artist.

My parents told me I could be anything I wanted, and I lived life expecting that to be true. So I studied whatever took my interest. History, the sciences, art. Briefly, accounting. Because it didn’t matter — I could be whatever the fuck I wanted.

When my father got sick, I didn’t want to be anything anymore. Didn’t seem to be a point. He was young — not even forty-five yet — and his life was over. All my hopes and dreams were pinned on his recovery. I prayed, I begged, I sacrificed.

It was never enough.

If there was a God, then he refused to listen. No one accepted my offerings.

After Dad died, the only thing I wanted to be was fucked. I drank, I smoked, I snorted.

There was nothing for me to rebel against, but I still found cause to yell at my mother and call her names.

And she just kept on doing what she’d been doing. She was my only constant in those years, and I was too much of a loose cannon to notice. She kept painting and drawing. Her work kept appearing in galleries and art shows.

If I’d bothered for even a second to pay attention, I might have noticed the sterling fucking example she was setting.

But I was too broken, and unashamed of flaunting my grief to the world. I didn’t want to feel anything except pleasure, and I pushed away every bit of pain that came my way.

The police asked me if I knew my mother was on anti-depressants. That she was scheduled to appear at an art gallery for her latest collection the night she was murdered. That, instead, she left and then came home, heavily intoxicated with booze and pills.

I didn’t. How could I? That would have required talking to her. Doing something other than yelling and disobeying her.

It was a blessing, they told me.

Meant she must hardly have felt a thing.

As if they were there when she was bound, gagged, and tortured. Like they had ringside seats to her brutal rape.

But they weren’t.

No one was there that night except her, and the man who took everything from her.

The man who stole my life from me.

* * *

I come to with a start,and stare fuzzily around my room as I lick dry lips and push onto my elbows. Must have dozed off, but I don’t remember even—

Someone’s coming up the stairs.

I’m on my feet in an instant. It’s not Marigold — those footfalls are too heavy, too slow.

Determined.

My eyes dart to the baseball bat beside my bedroom door. I left it there in case Briar ever came back, not sure if I could ever use it against him but wanting to keep my options open, just in case.

But this isn’t Briar. I know it like I know there’s some heavy shit coming my way.

I creep over the carpet, my breath coming in fits and starts as I take hold of the bat and wrap my fingers around the smooth handle.

My heart’s slamming in my chest. My pulse is a soft roar in my ears.

He’s on the landing now. I hear a door creak — the spare bedroom next to mine.

My door is next.

I hoist up the bat, flexing my fingers before wrapping them even tighter. It feels too heavy. My body too light. I want to tip over. I want to drop it.

But I clutch it for dear life instead.

Somehow knowing…this is life or death.

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