Page 78 of Brittle Heart

I sit up straight, pulling my hands out of my clothes as if they were on fire.

“Get it together,” I whisper to myself, quickly standing to go to the kitchen for a cold glass of water.

I switch on the kitchen light and grab a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water from the tap. Leaning against the kitchen counter with my hip, I take small sips, letting the cool liquid lower my body’s heat.

My conscience isn’t telling me anything new. I know I have a crush on all of them. But with Josh, it’s different, like a real possibility, something genuine. I believe he could be the one I’ve always longed for, the one for me.

Clay and Xander, on the other hand, are just crushes that can’t lead anywhere. They are a gay couple, for fuck’s sake. Yes, they are kind, funny, and fucking hot. Xander’s gentle side makes me weak, and his dominant side makes me wet. Clay makes me want to argue with him half the night just to fuck it out for the rest of it. But it’s all just a fantasy. Nothing will come from this inappropriate crush.

So, I suppose it’s okay to dream as long as I focus on Josh, the one I should be dreaming about. Which I do.

Fuck, why do I feel the need to justify my feelings, even to myself?

The apartment door opens, and I freeze. I assumed Roberto was already in his room asleep. But it seems he’s not. I’m torn between staying where I am, hoping he won’t notice me, or trying to sneak back into my room.

Just as I’m about to move, he enters the kitchen, his face angry as fuck. This differs from the usual drunk state he’s in when upset. He looks more sober than I’ve seen him in years, and that sends panic coursing through me.

“What are you doing?” he demands as he steps into the kitchen.

“Nothing, I was just going back to my room,” I say, trying to walk past him. But he grabs my left wrist tightly.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, his grip nearly bruising as he turns my wrist to see the tattoo on the inside of my forearm.

“N-nothing,” I stammer, trying to pull down the sleeve of my T-shirt in a desperate and mindless move.

“Is that why there was no money? Did you use it to get yourself a silly little animal tattoo?”

“No, that was not—”

“You use my money for shit like this?” He nearly spits.

“No, that’s not what happened,” I say, tears brimming in my eyes. I’m so fucking scared.

Most of the time, Roberto is so drunk when he hurts me that he can’t even focus his eyes on mine. His gaze is piercing right now, and he’s out for blood.

“You should’ve known better, Carolina,” he states, almost in a kind voice, but his intentions are clear.

He grabs my other wrist, slamming both of them onto the kitchen counter, causing sharp pain in my knuckles. He holds both my wrists tightly in one hand while taking out a switchblade from his back pocket with the other.

Most of the time, I retreat into the back of my mind, letting him do what he has to, trying to endure it calmly. But I know this will escalate, and I try to pull my arms out of his grasp with all I have, screaming at him to let go of me.

“Roberto, please, no! It wasn’t your money, but I can bring you more money. I can get it for you, please,” I beg, my voice growing more desperate by the second.

But he seems determined to punish me. He opens the blade and coldly says, “You like animals so much you need them on your skin? Let me add another piece, and it’s all for free.”

He leans over my right forearm and starts carving a line into my skin. The pain is unbearable. I plead with him to stop, but he continues without mercy. I kick at him and let myself fall to the floor in the hopes of him loosening his grip on my wrist, but all it does is force him to come with me down onto the floor, leaning over me. He lets go of my wrists, and I want to bolt when he brings the knife to my throat. My eyes go wide, my whole body shaking.

“You choose. Your arm or your throat. What will it be?” he asks, leaning so near his forehead nearly touches mine.

I contemplate for a second. I could just let him. I could just make it all end. It would be a relief. But then I think about Chiara and what my parents would think of me if they knew I was thinking about leaving her alone with this monster.

So, I hold out my arm to him.

He narrows his gaze at me but then moves the blade away from my throat, and I can breathe again. He kneels beside me and starts carving again.

I just lay on the floor, tears streaming down my face silently, clenching my teeth so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them cracked. The pain is nearly unbearable, but I am not going to give in.

I made a decision.

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