Page 50 of I Blame the Rival

I can barely breathe as I watch her trace the figure kneeling in front of the flowerbed. Her fingers dance lightly over my pencilmarks and the corresponding tug in my chest makes me think this is what it feels like to be seen.

She sighs, “It’s stunning, Skylar.”

“It’s for you.”

Her eyes widen, “You drew this for me?”

My head drops in a nod, “This is the one I was talking about the first night we met. When I said you were the inspiration behind it.”

Lacey was the inspiration behind this entire collection, but I keep that to myself.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s okay.”

Carefully tearing the page out of my sketchbook, I pass it over to her. Her teeth flash as a giant smile spreads across her face. I watch in awe as the skin around her eyes shrinks to accommodate the joy radiating through her.

She’s so pure. So unrestrained with her emotions.

My gaze flicks from the luminous girl beside me to the dusty boxes piled along my closet floor. Each one contains hundreds of pages that reflect the person I truly am.

Angry. Broken.Violent.

The repulsive thought pushes me off the bed and away from the one bright light untouched by my family’s history. Nausea climbs in my throat as I think about the memories stashed away in those boxes, the evidence of the unfiltered rage running from my bloodline to the ink staining the page.

I used to think the monster living under my bed was the one I had to fear. As I got older, I realized the real monster wasn’t the one lurking in the shadows of my bedroom. It wasn’t even the man who beat my mother every night.

It was the one hiding under my skin.

“You should go.” Looking anywhere but Lacey’s direction, I feel my body start to shake, “This is wrong.”

“What are you talking about?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, “You shouldn’t be here, Flower. Look at this place. Look atme.”

My bed squeaks as she climbs off it.

“I am looking at you, Skylar. And there’s nothing I don’t want to see.”

Frustration burns through me. She’s standing two feet away, watching me with unsuspecting eyes.

“Do you want to know what really happened that night? Do you want to know how my mother got her scars?”

I shake my head, feeling wildly out of control. The thundering beat of my heart feels like it might explode at any moment.

“Let me tell you a secret, Flower. My father despised his job, said every minute he spent working was a minute wasted. So, every night he would come home in a mood. Most people would bitch or complain to their significant other, but not Vincent Vin.”

A tear hits my cheek as a hysterical laugh leaks out, “He had triggers. Sometimes you knew what they were, other times you didn’t. My mom was the detonator. She would say or dosomething that would set him off and suddenly she had a new bruise or cut that needed to be covered up.”

I want to stop the words from falling out of my mouth, but I can’t. Like a coke bottle that’s been shaken too many times, the horrifying truth bubbles up and spills past my lips.

“My mom made his favourite meal that night. He’d had a rough week and we were all walking on eggshells, waiting for the next eruption. She forgot to set an alarm and when the food came out burnt, he grabbed the closest thing he could find and threw it at her.”

Lacey’s arms wrap around me as she pulls me close. I don’t realize I’m crying until the light colour of her sweater starts to darken with my tears.

“She tripped and fell on the broken glass. I tried to call the ambulance but she wouldn’t let me. There was so much blood, Flower. There was so much blood.”

I fall apart in her arms, crying into her neck like it might expunge the past that has never stopped haunting me. Lacey holds me tightly, not saying a word as I drench her skin with my tears.

---