Page 3 of The Depraved Prince
“Why would you do that?!” I cry out as I do everything I can to stay standing. My legs want to give out from the blackened emotions boiling inside of me with no way out. I step forward to pick up the pieces, but my mother’s broken voice cuts through the tension.
“Millie! Please stop.” She demands through gritted teeth. Her eyes widen.
She’s angry.Finally! She says something…but then her eyes narrow. And they’re not directed at Santiago.
She’s angry at me?
“But mom, look at what he’s doing! Doing to YOU! Look at what he’s saying?—”
She cuts me off again.
“Millie, shut up!” She demands of me once more, and my blood runs cold. Tears fall down my cheeks as I watch Santiago walk into the kitchen with sick satisfaction. He has a curve on his thin lips and smug shoulders. He’s turned my mother against my older brother and now me.
My older brother moved out a year ago because of their relationship, and I stayed, hoping things would get better.
“Mom!”
“Callate lo sico!”
The way my mom forced me down like I was the one who overstepped and crossed lines reminded me that I was no longer the center of her world. Have my brother and I ever been? It’s a question I’ll never get the answer to because I’m too afraid of the raw answer.
The center of her world remains clear.
It’s a man named Santiago, and she’s lost in her dark depression, plagued by his sickness, and there’s no more trying to save herself. There’s no more fight in her because she chose him.
She’s lost.
And…so am I.
The reality strikes my chest like a stab in my spirit.
My mother chose him over her own blood.
All my life, no one has ever chosen me. People are genetically programmed to feel something: protection, loyalty, love, selflessness, or guidance.
I’m jealous of everyone who has these things from their parents. Every time I go to school, I see my friends have their parents cheer them on when mine are nowhere to be found. I never got to experience moments like my mother and father kissing me on the cheek when I was a pre-schooler and telling me to have a good day at school. Or to have a warm bed and house to go home to.
I grab my backpack and flee from her apartment until I end up on my estranged father’s doorstep.
~Millie
I date the entry from when it happened. Five years ago. I’m twenty now, but the hole is still there. The damage is done. The past is permanent. The pain of losing a mother who’s still alive is like a wound that constantly bleeds.
I close my journal. Reading and writing have been my own self-medicated form of therapy since I was a child. I needed help. I still do. I craved to be shown that love exists and that demons don’t have to consume me. There is light within my troubled pastand future, and I refuse to let everything I’ve been through taint me permanently.
I push away from my desk and roll on my chair for a second before I get ready for work. I slide the all-pink journal across my desk and stand, tying my long black waves of hair with a band.
My hand is cramped from writing. It’s been healthy and freeing for me to pen down my thoughts finally. My parents don’t believe in depression or anxiety. They’ve never entertained the idea of mental illness.
So…writing has been a way for me to escape my horrid reality. I place the diary back in my drawer and slip on my barista uniform while staring at my new collection of snow globes on the shelf. I stare at the Alaska one more specifically. I haven’t been there but one day, I will.
“Alright,babes, we just gotta clean up, then we can lock up and enjoy our weekend.” I cheerfully hype up my coworkers as we close down the local coffee shop. I give Leah and Hayes a smile to disguise how I’m truly feeling. I’m beyond exhausted. I’ve been working since eight in the morning, and it’s now eight at night. My body aches, and I begin to sweat. Even though lately I haven’t been feeling like myself, I’ve been self-taught to keep going and to maintain positivity throughout rough moments like this. Bad days don’t always have to stay bad. They can end with a smile on my tortured face.
I’ve been working at the ‘Nostalgia Coffee’ shop for the past three years. It’s a flexible job that fits in with my full-time college schedule. And when I heard I could wear roller skates in a 1950s-themed diner that also sells comfort food, I jumped at the opportunity.
After I finished cleaning a coffee spill that left sprinkles of stains on the pink salmon walls, I move on to clean the checkered floors. Photos of 1950s-1970s rock stars, country artists, and singers are framed amongst the walls.
Paul Anka plays on low volume, and the sound of the television in the top corner of the lounge room grabs my attention as Hayes quickly grabs the remote and points at it. He raises the volume and puts his hand over his mouth, covering a gasp. It’s the local news channel with a breaking news alert. I stop in my tracks, balancing myself off the broom, and read the title of the breaking story.
