Page 2 of The Depraved Prince
“I’m what? A villain?” My un-beating heart sinks. The facts hurt. My own parents think I’m a monster. They are the only two people destined to love me, programmed to love me by chemistry, and it’s almost impossible for them.
I’m not a victim. I made it impossible for them. I take responsibility for that.
My behavior lately hasn’t been the best. I’ve grown addicted to being reckless. I spend most nights drinking and partying with other vampire friends. I’m doing anything and everything I can to avoid conversations about my future like this.
My mother and father look at each other in defeat. They can’t get through to me no matter what they say. I will never agree to marry into a family of mad people or take over for my father.There’s a reason why I despise the Southern King, and he wants me to marry his daughter so he can gain points with our people. To repair his tarnished image after he turned on his own kind.
I’m unforgiving.
It was always the plan…their plan. Never once had they asked me what I wanted. They never thought to ask themselves that maybe it’s time for things to change in an ever-evolving world.
Although, in reality, I still don’t know what I want. Even though I’m over three hundred years old, I still don’t have the answer if they ask me truthfully.
What do I want if I already have everything money can buy?
Then, they both turn to me with cold, deadpanned expressions.
My father looks through me as always and treats me like an heir and not his firstborn son before telling me with a distant tone.
“You are a villain when you need to be.”
1
MILLIE
March 23,1993
“Again,Theresa? Look at the fucking floor, cochina. There’s a stain right there by the stove! How long has it been there? And this? Why don’t you tell your worthless daughter to fold her clothes and put them away!” My mother’s fiancé shouts at her, as she sits on the couch, shame written all over her tired face. Her cheeks and neck turn a bright red shade.
As always…I watch her take his unprovoked wrath. My own rising beneath me as I helplessly have to go through another one of their fights.
“I’m sorry, Santiago. A drop of the soup must have fallen,” she tells him as she adjusts her posture on the couch. She had just finished dinner while he was out gambling their money away.
I sat there, anger simmering, waiting to blow but having to stay quiet so he wouldn’t take it out on my mom further.
“Eras una puerca! And so are your children!” He calls her and my brother pigs. His tone hardens with disgust.
What had my mother done to deserve this treatment? What had we done? And most of all, what did my mother see in him?
I’ve had enough. Ever since he entered her life, she was ruined in all the wrong, dreadful, self-deprecating ways. My mother’s spirit is tarnished and never coming back the longer their relationship continues.
He throws my clothes on the floor, making that the last straw for me.
“Don’t fucking talk to my mother like that, you piece of shit!” I stand from the couch, screaming at the top of my lungs, as a lump in my throat forms. If my mother can’t stand up for herself, I will. I’ll be the armor that she doesn’t have the strength or courage to wear. She’s my mother. I’ll always have this protective instinct; I can’t help it, and right now, punching Santiago in his face after built-up frustration of hearing him beat her down with disgusting insults and unprovoked fights sounds like a fantastic idea.
I’ve had enough of watching this abusive relationship grow with no ending in sight. Every time he’s around, my mood shifts, the air feels dense, and everything gets clouded in his demeanor.
At first, Santiago stood still, with flared nostrils and a protruding gut over his belt. His hands balled into fists and sweat-drenched the sides of his shirt.
I don’t understand why he has to react like this over small things that can be fixed with gentle requests or inquiries.
To get back at me, he does something I will never forget or forgive.
My collection of snow globes from every school field trip, dating back from Pre-K to my junior year of high school, comes crashing down to the floor when he sweeps his heavy arm through the dining room shelf.
Glass shatters, and thousands of pieces spread across the white tile in a massive puddle of water.
My heart can’t take it. With a trembling body, I watch my trophy memories fade before me.
