Page 72 of Twisted Addiction
“Mom,” I whispered, the word strange and fragile on my tongue. “I may not have power or money yet... but I swear, you’ll never know pain again. Not while I breathe.”
The vow hung in the dark between us—quiet, absolute.
Her face softened in sleep, the lines of grief easing as if she’d somehow heard me. And in that small, rented room, I felt something I hadn’t in years.
Belonging.
My foster parents had made my life a private hell—locking me in a damp for days without food or light, the air damp with rot and the sound of dripping water my only company.
They called it “correction.” The belts they used left welts that healed into scars.
Their sons—spoiled, sneering devils—would burn my arms with cigarettes, laughing while I bit my tongue to keep from crying.
I learned early that silence was safer than tears.
But silence had its price. It turned every scream inward. It made a cage of your own ribs.
Now I knew they had done worse than beat me.
They had killed my father. Maybe they had tried to kill her too. I saw it in the way she’d looked over her shoulder in the rain — the haunted flicker in her eyes every time the headlights from the street below passed across the curtains, the tremor in her hand when she reached for her tea.
She’d lived years in fear, searching for me in shadows, and still she came. Still she found me.
And I... I was a boy made of bruises and mistakes, sitting in a cheap motel room, unable to sleep beside the only blood family I had left.
She wasn’t safe here. None of us were.
I kept vigil that night, my body still, my mind wide awake.
My gaze drifted between her sleeping form and the cheap digital clock glowing on the nightstand. 3:07 a.m. In a few hours, dawn would bleed into the city, and we’d be gone—on a plane to Russia, leaving behind everything I’d ever known.
New York. The house of ghosts.
And Penelope.
Her name alone was enough to reopen the wound, sharp and merciless.
I could see her again—curled in another man’s arms, the rain beating against the window behind her.
She had promised me forever.
I could still hear her laugh under the oak tree, the way she’d traced my palm and said she wanted to grow old with me. And then I’d seen her — skin against skin with another boy, the light catching the curve of her smile. Not fear. Not regret. Only comfort.
The betrayal wasn’t sharp anymore. It was dull and endless, like a wound that refused to clot. I wanted to hate her, but my heart kept dragging me back to the memory of her voice, the way she’d whispered my name like it meant something.
I pressed my palms into my eyes until I saw stars. The pain did nothing. The ache was deeper.
Maybe it wasn’t her fault, a small voice said.
Maybe it was mine — for believing someone like her could love someone like me.
The thought tore something loose inside me.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. My mother stirred but didn’t wake. I went to the small desk near the window, its surface scarred with cigarette burns and coffee stains. The lamp flickered as I turned it on, throwing pale light across the paper pad and pen.
For a long moment, I just stared.
My reflection ghosted faintly in the window, eyes hollow, face pale and bruised. I didn’t recognize the boy looking back.
