Page 81 of Pretty When He Bleeds

Demon.

I freeze.

The word slithers through my skull like oil, thick and suffocating, curling around my ribs and squeezing.

Disgrace.

No. No, not now. I took my meds this morning, right? I didn’t miss anything, I took it like I’m supposed to! My fingers tighten around the paint tube, my pulse stuttering.

You let him see.

I shake my head, trying to force the voice out. “Shut up.” It’s not real.

Not real, not real, not real.

But the thing about my demons? They don’t give a fuck about what’s real.

You think he still wants you now?

The room tilts and I grab the edge of the table, my breaths coming too fast, too shallow.

I can’t do this.

Not again.

My free hand lifts, fingers pressing hard against my temple, trying to ground myself, trying to—

He’s going to leave, just like everyone else. You know that, don’t you?

My stomach turns, bile rising in my throat.

He’ll look at you like your father did, like something rotten. Something to be ashamed of.

My hands curl into fists. My nails dig into my palms, sharp enough to sting, and I welcome the pain. “It’s not fucking real,” I mutter, forcing myself to move, to do something, to get out of my own fucking head.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It’s not real. It’s never real.

I slam the heel of my hand against my head once, twice, three times, hard enough to send pain splintering through my skull.

It’s like flipping a switch.

The voices stutter, warping at the edges, twisting into a tangled mess of static before fading into the background.

I breathe.

My chest heaves and the room stops tilting. I drag my hand down my face, fingers trembling, and force myself to straighten.

The paint tube is still crushed in my grip, black streaks dripping onto the table, my hands, my fucking clothes. I exhale sharply and grab a brush. If I stop now, the voices will come back. I won’t let them. I press the bristles to the canvas, dragging thick, messy strokes across the surface, my mind shutting off the way it always does when I paint.

And maybe, if I lose myself in this long enough, I won’t think about last night.

I won’t think about Roman.

I won’t think about the way he held me.

And I won’t think about how, for the first time in years, I actually felt safe.

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