Page 20 of The Heart of a Villain

Rush, 9 years old

The brush moves flawlessly on the white canvas, spreading blue paint everywhere as I visualize the ocean during a storm, where a boat struggles to survive.

Sweat streams down my forehead, and I wipe it away, welcoming the light breeze coming from the open window, as the moonlight brightness up the space around me. It’s enough to appreciate my art and not wake up Rafael, who snores soundly on the bed.

Cleaning the brush in the water, I then dip it in the yellow and wave it hard, allowing the splashes to fall all over the canvas, creating the reflection of stars on the waves.

I grab a glass of water on the nearby desk and take a greedy gulp, sighing at the cold liquid sliding down my throat while doing my best to ignore the screams echoing in the hallway, stabbing invisible arrows into my heart.

“You can’t do this forever!” Mom yells, crashing sounds ringing in the air before she adds, “They will find out eventually.” Her heels click on the marble floor as she must rush after our father, who’s probably heading to their room.

He never allows their arguments to escalate in front of other people.

Shaking my head, I flex my fingers harder on the brush and then dip it in red, smearing it all over the ocean.

“Just paint, Rush. Just paint,” I whisper to myself, despising my complete hopelessness when it comes to all this but accepting it anyway.

It seems as long as we live on this island, I have no other choice.

“You will not reign forever.”

“Who will stop me? You?” Father’s sadistic laughter awakens fury in my blood along with fear sliding through my veins, and on a reflex, I rub my shoulder that still throbs from his recent hit.

He didn’t appreciate me asking questions about the bruises on Mom’s neck, so he pushed me out of his way. I rolled down the stairs and by miracle alone didn’t snap my neck.

No one was around, of course. The monster never hurts me in company, so I had to keep my mouth shut to not upset Mom.

Upsetting her would mean another heartbreak for her in this golden prison she willingly signed up for, as he offered to take her to the city time and time again, but she always refuses.

Instead, she keeps us all here and continues to write in her diaries in the garden, sometimes staring for hours at her wedding picture as if trying to find traces of her cruel husband in the man he once seemed to be.

I gave up a long time ago trying to get my father back as demons ate his soul.

Rustling of sheets snaps my attention, and I shift my focus to my brother.

“Rush.” Rafael sits up on his bed, scrunching his eyes, and cracks his neck. “Why are you awake?”

Before I can say anything else, Mom speaks up again. This time, her voice is stronger as they pass by our door. “There are people who will stop you. And when they come, I will take the kids and leave.”

I exchange a look with Rafael, the surprise evident on his features that must mirror mine.

Mom wants to leave?

She yelps, and then we hear the door being shut tight in their room, shaking the walls around us, and we both jump in place.

The paintbrush drops on the floor, smearing my toes while my hands fist, and I barely restrain myself from running to her, to try to save her.

Whenever I tried that in the past, she either told me to go back to sleep or ignored me altogether.

“Rush.” Rafael places his palm on my shoulder, squeezing it, and I wince, stepping back. His brows furrow. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing,” I mutter, picking up the brush and putting it back on the desk. “Go back to sleep.” I wipe my hands with the nearby towel while my twin stands still, studying me. “Rafael.”

He ignores the silent plea and crosses his arms. “Did he hurt you?” A beat, and he adds, “Tell me what he did.” Since I say nothing, he exhales heavily and then tugs on my shirt, dragging me toward the balcony so he can have better light on my injury. “That bastard!” he hisses when my purple-colored skin comes into view.

A chuckle slips past my lips at the murderous expression settling on his face while coldness blankets his gaze.

Somehow, my twin tolerates Mom’s anguish—well, to an extent. According to him, she chose this fate, and we cannot do anything about it. But if Father as much as looks at me wrong… the gloves come off, and he wants to fight.

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