Page 3 of Bitter Truths

Shrugging, I drop my eyes. Nothing about this is easy, but I guess it wouldn’t be worth it if it were. I think I saw that on a greeting card once. “I set out to destroy her because she left me. I-I couldn’t . . . I wanted to be her everything, and when she dropped me, I decided I’d be the one she couldn’t survive. In the end, I chose to be her devil.”

“Do you know why?”

I know what he wants. He wants the sordid fucking story of my life. Am I ready to tell the filth buried beneath the surface?

I guess Halsey was right. Some dirt you can’t wash clean.

“Why do you think you had to hurt her, Griffin?”

Sucking in a breath, I glance around at my audience, each of us here to expose our sickness. It doesn’t make me feel better to know they probably, to an extent, understand. Nope. Because it means the horror I’ve carried in my heart, shriveled and decaying, isn’t unique. I’m not special in my greed. I’m an excuse I’ve been feeding to make myself feel better.

But it’s a lie. I’m a lie. What a cluster.

“I guess when I met her, Hal—H—she saw in me something no one else ever had.”

“Which is what?”

The words stick in my throat, and I cough to cover my shudder before admitting, “Someone worthy of love.”

The counselor nods. “Good. Griffin, why don’t you think you deserve to be loved?”

“Because she’s the first person who did.” It’s true. I’ve never said it out loud, but deep down, I’ve known all along why I embraced my rage. She built me up with her lies and crushed them between her hands. Or so I thought.

“And?”

With a grimace, I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling. “My father is a cold, stern man. His version of love, if you can call it that, is providing for his family. To him, I’m a legacy. Not a fucking person.”

“And your mother? How did your mother show her affection?”

You’re a filthy monster, Griffin.

Clearing my throat, I cross my arms over my chest and smirk. “My mother was mentally ill. She thought the devil lived inside of me.”

“I see. How did that make you feel?”

“How do you think it made me feel?” I bark.

The useless fucking questions are always what gets me in the end.How did that make you feel?

Well, gee. It sure didn’t make me want to break into dance.

Besides, how do you explain the shriveled parts of your soul? Mother spent the entirety of my life beating me down until the only pieces of me left were covered in filth and buried beneath rage.

You love me, don’t you, Griff?

Fuck me.

“I don’t want to infer your feelings, Griffin. I’m asking you how it made you feel,” the counselor says, and I huff.

Spare me the psychobabble shit.

“It made me feel like a piece of shit,” I mutter.

“Okay, can you break it down for me?”

Glancing at the floor, I suck in a breath and exhale slowly. These are the parts of me I’ve held close, and to let them go feels like a knife to the damn chest. I’ve never been suicidal, but I can see the appeal because some things are best left in the dark. “I felt . . . empty. Wrong. Filthy.”

“Filthy, how?”

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