Page 169 of Sinful Desires
And maybe that’s why I spiraled harder with every year.
Because it was easier to drown than to admit I was the fucking failure in a family of saints. And every time they’d opened the door for me again, arms warm and hearts wide, I hated myself a little more for walking through it.
The return of the prodigal son who didn’t deserve mercy.
Not even a little.
“You’re drunk and high,mon cœur. You don’t mean that. Please, let us help you,” my mother said as she stepped closer, her hand brushing my cheek. Tears swelled in her eyes. “We hate to see you like this, Théo.”
I jerked back with a twisted laugh, tossing my head away from her touch like it burned.
“Like what? Free? That’s who I am,Maman.”
The stars in my vision flared as I laughed again, too loudly, too long, the kind of laugh that cracks in the middle. The room tilted, colors bleeding at the edges, furniture warping like a dream on fire.
I threw my arms out wide, spinning once on unsteady feet, eyes glassy and wild.
“That’s who I fucking am,” I shouted, slapping my bare chest with a force that echoed in the chandelier. The sound ricocheted in my skull, ringing louder than reason.
My skin stung. My ears rang. My heart roared with it.
Unhinged. Electric. Free.
And completely fucking broken.
“Théo!”
A hiccup punched out of my throat as I pointed at her clumsily, like the room wouldn’t stay still.
“I’m sorry,Maman. So, so fucking sorry.” I laughed, hollow and sharp, my eyes burning. “You gave birth to a degenerate.”
The word hit the air like acid.
I swayed. The portraits on the wall stared down, their painted eyes burning through me, judging harder than any living soul ever could.
“A child who will never live up to your expectations. Should’ve aborted me when you had the fucking chance?—”
I didn’t even finish.
My father stepped forward, fast and hard, pulling my mother behind him as her sob burst out like something torn from the gut.
“That’s enough,” he said, voice cold enough to stop the blood in my veins. “Don’t youeverdare speak to my wife like that.”
I gulped, throat closing, stomach curdling under the weight of what I’d said.
There’s a special kind of curse in realizing you were the reason the people who loved you most were hurting. That you’d become the monster behind their pain.
Not strangers. Not enemies. But them.
The very two who had taught me how to ride a bike in the garden, who had held my hands through my first words, who’d baked salted caramel cookies because they were my favorite, who had drawn silly cartoons on my lunch napkins every day without fail.
Who had given me piggyback rides through the halls, who’d let me sleep between them without complaint when I cried in the middle of the night. Who had slowed down and answered everystupid little question I ever asked, who’d thrown a party when I lost my first tooth, who’d built their entire lives around me because I was the most precious thing they’d ever held.
And now I was the one hurting them.
Spoiling it.
Rotting it.
