Page 22 of Bitter Truths

Chapter Six

I lost myself to the darkness.

GRIFFIN

One of my electives this semester is an art course, and I’m going to take it because I know how much Halsey loves it. I guess, pathetically, I wanted to know more about her passion. During high school, she wandered through the halls with her fingers perpetually covered in paint and a notepad of her drawings clutched in her hands.

Although Halsey loved drawing when I met her, her love for painting grew after our separation. At times, when I couldn’t help myself, I wondered if she still drew me because even though she never admitted it, I knew she had before. I was flattered and blown away by her talent, and the sick, twisted part of me wanted her to still be as stuck on me as I denied to myself that I was her.

When she had her breakdown and ended up in the hospital, I lost my mind.

She looked terrible, vacant, and I had to look away because the sight reminded me of my part in this little game gone wrong. I couldn’t say for sure I was the reason she lay down in her bed and refused to leave, but I couldn’t help but compare her to Mother.

Maybe my filth finally rubbed off, and every single thing Mother drummed into my head over the years rolled around like a fucking pinball.

I was both ashamed of my behavior and thrilled because all I ever wanted was Halsey, and she cast me aside. I wanted her to feel my pain, and I was willing to be a cruel motherfucker to do it, so, yeah, I sat in that chair across from her during her intervention, cool as a cucumber, but inside, my stomach was a roiling mass of acid.

It’s sick, I know, and it’s this that made me realize I really was the bastard Mother created me to be.

But I couldn’t get the thought of her killing herself out of my head. Could I live in this world without her? She would laugh in my face if I said this, but I went home that day and drank myself into oblivion because, in this, she had won. I still couldn’t move past the girl with the deep blue eyes.

It all faded to a bone-deep rage when Max said she attempted to off herself because that dick Jason Macklemore dumped her.

My cold, dead heart ached once again because, after years of hating her, I was still devastated at the thought she wanted him over me. And when she came to me that night, the one I will regret until the day I die—and maybe after—she offered me her love, and although it took my breath away, I turned her down once more, grossly pleased that finally, she understood my torment.

Except I pushed her into the arms of Jason, and she lost her innocence in a brutal act that haunts my fucking dreams.

At any rate, when I saw this elective, I signed up, hoping to glean anything that might bring me closer to my greatest weakness. I’m still reeling over our interaction at the mall, but I’m resolved. We’ll be together even if we despise each other because I can’t let her go. I won’t.

If she hated me so damn much, why would she fuck me? No, the feeling is there. It’s just buried under her hate, but I can get behind that. I’ve been battling the same fucking thing for years.

So here I am, on a foolish quest to feel closer to her. When I scan the desks for an out of the way spot, I spy her sitting toward the back with her head bent toward her book.

What are the odds? Okay, maybe not that fucking high, but if I believed in fate, I would agree this is a sign not to give up.

She’s doodling in her notebook, and I viciously need to know if it’s me she’s drawing. When I confirm it is, it eases something that’s been writhing crazily in my chest. She can deny me all she wants, but her passion still includes me, and I intend to use that to my advantage. Any fucking way I can.

She hasn’t noticed me, and I take a deep breath for patience because she’s always driven me crazy and the maelstrom of emotions rushing through me leaves me lightheaded. I spent so long wanting to destroy her that it’s hard not to fall into those same destructive behaviors as I look at her now. I want to own her because she’s owned me since I fucking met her.

Her pretty blonde hair hangs in her face as she recreates my image, her lush lips pursed in concentration. I have to resist the urge to brush it out of her face like I once would have without needing permission.

Ignoring the motherfucking ache of loss that sits on my chest like a 400-pound gorilla, I look her over quickly, admiring the swell of her breasts under her top.

Of course, my dick stiffens in my jeans because she’s beautiful, she always has been, and today is no different. Along with my incessant desire to consume her, though, is relief. She’s finally wearing normal clothes and brushing her damn hair, leading me to hope she’s getting better.

Bracing myself for her reaction, because I know she’s going to be pissed, I feel a little thrill at the prospect. Our hate-filled interactions have led to the best sex of my life, although maybe that was just her.

With a raised brow, I lean over her and drawl, “Aw sweet, if you want a picture of me, all you have to do is ask.”

Her head shoots up, her liquid eyes wide as she rasps, “Griff, what are you doing here?”

I pull my lips into a devilish smirk and look her over again, my dick pulsing when she flushes. The rosy hue fills me with need, and my tone is husky when I say, “Learning. How about you?”

Her expression is adorable as she stares at me, dumbfounded, and I can only stare back. I’ve always loved her eyes because they give me a peek into her soul, but the further apart we’ve become, the harder it is to see, and it’s this that creates that dull ache I can’t fucking shed.

Unfortunately for her, when I’m pushed too far, I react, and as I’ve established, I’m a fucking beast with a bloody raw imprint on my soul. This is why I went back to group recently. I know it’s a knee-jerk reaction, but I have to find a way that doesn’t include hurting the people around me—hurting her.

She drops her pen, and although she’s now frowning at me, it’s refreshing to see her eyes free of the void I’ve gotten used to.

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