Page 56 of Hold On

His words hit my heart and I’m sobbing. Heisbeing traumatized. And I know he’sbeentraumatized in the past from his own abuse and not being able to save his mom from their shitty situation.

We’re just two fucked up kids inside our hearts, trying to undo the damage as adults that we sustained growing up. And it fuckinghurts. My heart aches. And so does his. I can see it in his tortured eyes.

“Just take us home,” I mumble, not having anything more to say. The fight is leaving me as familiar pain replaces my anger. It’s so big, it feels absolutely debilitating. Sebastian seethes next to me as I cry openly. It seems to be a common occurrence between us now.

Healing is so messy. Is that what we’re doing? I honestly can’t tell anymore. My life feels so miserable and out of control, I’m afraid to claim healing in any capacity. I hug the bag in my lap to me tighter, trying to feel safe.

I don’t. I haven’t in so fucking long.

I don’t know that I ever will.

Chapter Thirty-One - Now

Sebastian:

I pull up in front of my house and turn the car off. Alina feels so distant from me. I’m not sure what to do about it or where to go from here when she says that she wants to be alone down at the shed. I nod and hand her the key again. She leaves quietly, gripping her bag from the sex shop. I watch her back disappear as the darkness grows around her, swallowing her whole as she walks away from me. My forehead meets the steering wheel as I start to cry.

I don’t know if I’ve ever cried this much in my entire life. It was literally beaten into me to suppress my emotions as a kid. Alina has a knack for cracking me open though. It’s actually really fucking scary when you’re used to hiding from everyone. I eventually get out of my car and enter my house, traipsing up the stairs while feeling all kinds of sorry for myself. But if I’m being honest, I’m really just mad at the fact that Alina’s right and I’m once again realizing how much of a dickhead I’m being. I keep fucking this up and it’s terrifying me. I don’t want to fucking lose her.

I really fuckingdon’t.

And she’s right. Pretending that Luke doesn’t exist isn’t the right way to go about this shit and making her out to be a villain because of what she’s had to do to survive is not the way tohandle it either. She isn’t the villain. I’ve literally made her feel like her situation is her faultagain.

Man, I used to fucking hate that shit.

When my dad would fuck with my head and blame me for the things that he’d done to me in anger. It made me question my reality and what was actually true. More often than not, I found that I agreed with him. Because he was bigger than me and used pain as my teacher. I learned from him that I was bad. I never truly felt that way deep down, but it would hurt to try and tell myself otherwise. It felt fundamentally wrong to be kind to myself after his beatings. And now I’m gaslighting Alina, the one fucking angel who never questioned me. She always only helped me without judgement.

Everything comes to a head. All the voices barking at me and the emotions bubbling up inside my skull cause me to break. I’m blasting the fuck off as I swing.

“Fuckme!!” I scream as I throw my already busted fist into the wall next to me. My knuckles burn deliciously from the blow, the pain feeling like an old girlfriend coming back to life and satiating me again.

Ha.

They’re covered in carnage as I stand there watching them drip onto the carpet. It puddles up in the fibers as it begins to congeal on my hand.

I wish I were touching Alina. My fingers are aching for softness after my outburst. Her wet skin, her slick pussy. I can practically taste it as I begin to salivate at the thought of digging my tongue into her depths. I need her.

But I have to respect her past and stop trying to change her current reality because it makes me uncomfortable. I’m finally getting that. It took long enough, but it’s clicking. It’s something I wouldn’t want anyone else to put on me. I’d be pissed.

I walk to the sink, trying to tend to my hand. I feel calmer and more centered now. I’m beginning to soap up my knuckles when I hear a small gasp from behind me.

I instantly tense back up.

My mom invited herself into my house without asking or knocking first. She does it way too frequently. Whenever I’d come visit and work on the place while on a break from touring, she’d invite herself to dinners I made, wanting to eat together. Or she’d show up afterwards, asking to watch a movie with me, popcorn in hand. Most of the time I’d turn her away, needing the solace of my quiet house that a giant bus didn’t give me while traveling. Sometimes I felt obligated to socialize, but it was usually quiet and lacked authenticity if I gave in to her requests for quality time. It never felt like it was about real connection. She still acts as if nothing that happened during my childhood was fucked up or traumatizing. And I can’t do that for her comfort anymore. Especially to my detriment.

Tonight, I’m not in the mood to hide any of my feelings and the one currently rising up is irritation at her continued disrespect of my space and privacy. “What the fuck do you want, Carol?” I ask menacingly, echoes of my father’s voice lacing the words coming from my mouth. She freezes as I turn to her, wrapping my hand in a dish towel, leaning my hips on the countertop as I stare at her without remorse for my tone. “I’ve asked you repeatedly to knock and you have, once again, crossed a boundary I set with you.” I don’t say anything else, knowing she’ll squirm more if she doesn’t have a direct question to answer. And boy, does she ever. I narrow my eyes as every ounce of kindness leaks from my facial expression while she searches for words.

“That girl,” she starts feebly. I’m advancing on her before she can even comprehend the thought she was trying to form.

“What aboutAlina?” I ask with a deep growl. She cowers before me, holding her hands up, playing up the whole scene as the victim she loves to be. “I don’t put my hands on women like that fucker you kept around my entire life!” I hiss at her. “Stop acting so goddamn helpless, Carol!”

She doesn’t like that. I can see the evil enter her eyes. Or maybe it’s her finally growing a pair of balls.

Sheslapsme. The bitch actually fuckingslapsme.

Her hand whips across my face so fast, it takes a moment for me to actually register what she’s done. My body seizes up, wanting to fight back. It takes everything within me not to react, not to hit mymother. Because all I want to do is protect myself from this pain. The realization of her turning on me too, at thirty-fucking-two. I stand before her, frozen in place. Internally panicking. I can’t read her own face anymore; what she may or may not be thinking.

ButIthink that in this moment, I fucking hate her.

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