Page 5 of Cruel Endings

I’m reclining in a hospital bed, propped up on pillows. The room smells of antiseptic, and my face aches. I’m woozy from all the painkillers.

The bandages were peeled off a few days ago, and the swelling is finally receding. I’m still handsome, if I do say so myself, but my face looks completely different. The shape of my nose, mouth, cheekbones, jaw… they’re less refined. I’m more square-jawed and rugged looking. My nose is shorter. My lips fuller. I don’t look like myself at all.

I look kind of like an American football player. Brutish. Dangerous. My outside reflects my inside now.

My thick, wavy black hair is gone, buzzed to my scalp. That bothers me. I’m vain about my hair, so sue me. I run my fingers over my scalp. There are no stitches, no bumps or bruises. So why was my hair cut so short?

I still can’t remember a damn thing about the car accident.

We’re at a hospital in Barcelona. I’ve been living here for the past year. I move around frequently since nowhere feels like home anymore.

My company, Cyber-X Security, is based in London, but I can run it from anywhere. Simon and Antoine, my childhood friends, oversee a lot of the day-to-day operations. They’ve both checked in with me, and the company is doing fine. So I’ve remained here.

My parents sit in chairs by my bed, and the midmorning sun pouring through the window bathes them in golden light. Even in their fifties, they are still a stunning couple. My father, with his short hair and close-clipped beard, shot through with gray. My mother, with her artfully colored champagne-blond hair, pulled back in a glossy chignon. Her dark roots are showing just a little, which is unusual for her. I assume it’s because of my hospitalization. Something like this would age her.

She’s still well kept, wearing a pink Chanel dress that pairs well with her complexion. My father looks regal like always in his lightweight gray wool suit, cut to fit him perfectly.

“It’s okay. You’re still as handsome as ever,” my mother says with a fond smile as though she can read my mind.

How twisted she’d find me.

She leans forward and strokes my battered face lightly. I try to smile back, but it feels more like a grimace.

Relations between my parents and I have been strained for the past ten years. I know they love me. I just can’t live with the crushing disappointment they feel toward me—and their actual fear. I left home the day I turned eighteen. My father protested and threatened to cut me off financially. I laughed at him. I’d never planned on taking a cent of their money anyway. I have a strong independent streak. Always have.

He threatened to bring me back by force, so I deliberately disappeared and traveled around Europe and America for a couple of years. In my travels, I became a master hacker. I broke into the most secure computer systems in the world, left sarcastic messages, and then sold my services to the owners of the companies, telling them how to keep me out. Sometimes I broke into their houses, stole items, and mailed them back to prove my point. It should’ve landed me in prison, but instead, I expanded into providing home security.

My parents were incredibly relieved when I finally contacted them again. There was no more talk of dragging me back home by force—it was much too late for that—but there was a definite chill between us.

Given what they believed about me, I was surprised they bothered keeping in touch. Maybe this had to do with my sickness, my inability to understand normal human emotions. But why did they still want to spend time with me when they knew about my darkness? Why did they visit me several times a year? Everything else in their life was perfect. They were very close with my four brothers and sisters, all of whom went into the family businesses. My sisters managed the lavender distillery and the vineyards, and my brothers did computer security. My parents doted on their grandchildren.

I was the mistake, the abomination.

It would have been easier for all of us if they just quit trying.

Unlike me, though, they’re normal. I guess that visiting your son in the hospital, even if you believe he’s a pit of evil with a pretty face, is what normal people do.

Still woozy, I slowly turn my head to look at my father. “Where is my car?” I ask him. It was an Aston Martin Vanquish, the color of a turquoise sea. I care more about the welfare of that car than I do most people.

He grimaces. “Totaled.” Ouch. “I’ve ordered another one for you.”

“That wasn’t necessary,” I say with perhaps a little too much harshness because I see my mother’s wince, and there’s an answering clench of dismay in my gut. I soften my voice. “But thank you. It was thoughtful of you.”

I pick up the mirror on my nightstand and stare at it again. “I don’t even recognize myself,” I say, running my fingers over my altered jawline.

“You’re as handsome as a movie star,” my mother says brightly.

I bend my lips into a pained smile, setting the mirror back down. “Yes, but you’re my mother. You’d say that if I looked like the love child of Quasimodo and a horse’s ass.”

“True. Thank heavens you don’t.” She winks at me.

Then I look at my father. “Well, I never looked like you, and I still don’t look like you. But at least they were able to put me back together enough that I look human.” My brothers and sisters don’t look that much like him, or my mother, either, for that matter. We all look like each other but not like our parents. Honestly, I used to wonder if we were all somehow adopted, but I’d seen my mother pregnant with Odette and Jules, so we couldn’t be.

“And you’re alive,” my mother points out. She smiles with sympathy. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to go to America.”

I feel a sting of annoyance. “No, you’re not.”

We traveled a lot to other places when I was growing up, but she has this odd notion of America being a terrifying, lawless land, and she always begged me not to go there. She told me she had a terrible premonition about it, and she got so upset at the mere idea of me visiting the States that whenever I went, I’d lie to her where I was going. I travel under a false name with documents I paid significantly for. As far as she knew, I’ve never set foot in the U. S. of A.

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