Page 3 of Ashes of Saints

Usually more people.

The right people.

In the right roles, so they don’t mess up the company again.

It’s not goddamn brain surgery.

Fuck me.

As you can tell, I’m angry about a lot of things. I don’t have much patience. I always have to be in control and I hate to lose.

I rarely do.

And I’m driven by a need to avenge the little boy who didn’t have the influence, power, and money that I do now. Aurora is the first step in my plan.

Listen, I could be more of a monster.

I was...fuck, I hate saying the words. I know I live on the edge. I was groomed. Groomed to be a sexual toy and one day a predator.

They told me I was a good boy and helped me choose other kids when they were brought in. My father said I would be in charge of this one day.

“I don’t want to.” I responded when I was seven.

He slapped me so hard I fell over and my face was bruised. The next day, Dad told Mom I fell down some stairs.

I was taught to do as I was told and not have a point of view about what I did or saw. Day by day, year by year, I became numb even while the flame of hate flickered deep down inside me.

Had it gone on longer, they might’ve succeeded in completely putting out that flame.

But they didn’t.

Fortunately, my grandmother discovered what my father was doing, and I was sent away to Phillips Academy.

If only it was as simple as all that sounds.

That I’d lived happily ever after.

But that’s not how abuse works. There was no therapy. No open discussion about what I’d been through and having him arrested. No sobs and anguish at the loss of my innocence.

Nothing.

Grandma, a stoic woman, was worried about the shame it would have on the family if the information got out. Her side of the family came from old money, and it was ingrained in her DNA to protect our reputation.

I can’t hate her for it— her actions saved my life.

While my mother sat in shame, Grandma paid for me to go to boarding school and confronted my father behind closed doors. All I heard was the yelling and smashing of glasses.

So that’s me: rich and angry as fuck.

From the outside, I look like a privileged white guy with more money than God. That’s the thing about assumptions, isn’t it? They’re packed with bullshit and stories the viewer made up.

A fantasy.

Suffering can be very visible or invisible.

And who’s to say which is worse? It’s not a fucking competition, but trust me, nobody would choose my childhood. I might have grown up in a big fancy house, but I’d trade that for poverty and parents who loved and protected me any day of the damn week.

To others, it appeared that my father and I were close. He took me with him wherever he went.

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