Clementine.
He was once my saviour, now he's my captor.
Ezekiel Ambrose doesn't hide who he is. Unlike me he's proud being a monster.
Cruel.
Popular.
Devilishly handsome.
Sinner.
Ezekiel
O...
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GROWING UP IN THE AMBROSE MANOR brought nothing but misfortune. I was the product of rape and mom made sure I never forgot it.
She treated me as though I was the one who assaulted her, trying her best at avoiding me throughout my life, whilst my father—the man who had actually raped my mother, was given a clean slate with her and lived happily ever after.
I confronted her about it after school when I was eight. At first her lips moved into a rhythmic scowl when she saw me entering the kitchen, then something in her expression softened when I asked.
"I love your father, Ezekiel."
And even then, my heart stung at that. That meant she didn't love me, therefore she couldn't forgive me, because if she loved me, she'd forgive me for my being born.
I yelled at her for the first time ever. I yelled for all the times she made me hate who I was.
Dirty tears rolled down my cheeks at this point. Her nose scrunched up in disgust as she glared down at me, her eyes narrowing in warning. "Go to your room, Ezekiel." She said in her usual monotone voice.
That's what I hated about her. Any other parent would've hit me or at least scream at me for being such a brat. Mom did none of those things. Instead she would ignore me and to me that was worse than being beaten, because at least then she would have finally acknowledged her son.
I told her how much of an idiot she was for letting love possess her heart and ran to my room, slamming the door behind me loudly and then dropping to my knees, holding back tears of frustration with balled up fists at my side.
I completely tossed the word out of my vocabulary and vowed to never fall in love, because in my head I knew I would never allow myself to be so stupid.
My zero-tolerance policy might paint me out as a cold-blooded bastard, but I didn't care. I'd rather be cold-blooded than a fool in love.
I've seen what it does to people. Caring for someone can either result in gratitude or a knife in your back.
I'm older and wiser now. I vowed a long time ago to never let people in.
Ever.
And that includes the sweet-hearted girl I used to know.
The fact I'm standing in the basement in a cabin far away from Darlington and its students, covered in blood and guts, is the personification of the stages I had to overcome to get where I am now.
The man jerks against the zip ties binding him, his eyes wide and red from all the crying pleading he's done, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.
Silas rests his entire body weight on the wall behind him, watching the weeping loser with zero emotion on his face, occasionally checking his watch. He's waiting for a little someone to text him back. Pathetic.
