Cold-hearted love

6. Sage

  I worked my ass off the rest of the break. It was considerably hard since everyone was home and making me a part of their affairs. I have to go to a bullshit charity gala around six o'clock. I had nothing against charity—hell, I donate my money to foundation anonymously but, most people there didn't give two shits about the poor, it was all about there image. Or who could donate more to prove they were richer.

  My parents were no different. And I hated it, but understood it was necessary for appearance sake. Around five-thirty I got ready, wearing a red sleeveless off-shoulder silk cocktail dress gown with a slit up my thigh. The dress was very much to my liking, it hugged my curves— and more importantly covered the bruises and scars that are still healing— from the asylum and other activities. The scars that the dress didn't cover I used make-up.

Love, you have GOT to stop thinking of that horrid place. There's a reason someone once said 'denial is bliss', Elijah said.

It's "ignorance is bliss" you, dumbass.

Who do you think you're calling dumbass; I'm smart as you, if not smarter.

Shut it, Elijah.

  As I headed down stairs my father looked at me in the corner of his eyes and flashed a quick sincere smile, it was so fast I could have missed it but I knew it was there. "You look beautiful, Hayat", father said as he walked with me to the car with my brother and mother already there.

I detest that nickname, he said.

How many times do I have to say this: SHUT UP, YOU ANCIENT WINDBAG!

Sage, physically I'm two years older than you right now. He said it but that made no sense so I just ignored it.

  My father, Alexander Levine was a man of few words. To most people he seemed terrifying but to me he was my father. Or at the very least genetically my father. Unlike the rest of my family I took after my father in many, if not most areas. As I grew older I understood him more. I didn't detest my father— even if I should— for being ignorant. He was probably the only member of my family I could tolerate for a long period of time. To the world he the businessman or Don but to me he was the man who could almost be considered to raise me. My father's method's may have may seem harsh but I thank him for it. He taught me thinks that was needed for me in this world. It was what I told myself because no matter how much I tried I couldn't hate the man.

  Even with all that a part of me resented my father, though—and the rest of my family—for the person he (they) made me into. I wouldn't be this way if it weren't for him— actually I would; but it would've taken more time. He knew and hated that he turned me into a monster but he hated even more that he loved it. Even if I resented the man, I cared for him. As I stared into his gray lifeless eyes that are a reflection of my own I saw a flicker of pride that was always there when he looked at me before he crushed the smallest bit of emotion.

  For as long as I've know him— which is my whole life— I've never seen my father truly happy. His eyes were always dead and lifeless like he was just that; between the living and the dying, existing but never living.

  My brother was someone my father was suppose to have. An obligation for a male heir— sexist, I heard Eli mumble— But me? I'm the spitting image of his beloved dead mother. The only person I bet he truly loved. Which might've been why he called me Hayat. Hayat; the name meant life and maybe that was what I was to him. His second chance at life. I was gift from my mother to my father. My mother, Sofia, was someone he was forced to be with; he couldn't stand her much less love her but had to have children with her. To him I was the closest thing he has to love and emotion in his otherwise dead world.