"Kiss me." He picks me up and kisses me again.
His hands on my waist, my hands in his hair and my lips all over him.
I think I don't have a crush anymore.
I think i'm in love.
We break the kiss and he looks at me, "I'm so fucked aren't I my Val?"
︶꒦...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Why do you keep forcing me to hurt people, Dad?" I questioned, yawning into his chest.
"To save you," he explains, kissing my head.
"From whom?" I ask, cuddling into him, begging for more warmth.
I knew who he was talking about—the bad lady in the art room.
"Your mother," he mutters.
I wake up, gripping onto my bed sheets, anger suffocating me.
Demetrius's father killed my mother.
I gaze out the window, soft sobs echoing from within. I wasn't strong, and I'm not the hero who would shout and fight.
I am Valentina, the girl who laughed her problems away and pulled on a smile. I trusted Demetrius; I thought there was a chance he would have one ounce of care for me, but he didn't.
I couldn't look at Demetrius after I heard this. I hid and ran when he would come near me. At night, I pushed away his hand, saying I was sick. I am awful with confrontation, but this was different; I was confronting the closest to peace I had left.
The nightmare I had was merely a glimpse of my past, and I couldn't untangle this web.
My mother never hurt anymore. I knew this. She would cook with me and hug me when I was sad. It was never Dad; it couldn't be Dad. He invited those mean guests who would say hurtful comments, but he invited these two boys.
Two boys.
I'm remembering. A cry escapes from me. Those boys—I need to find them. The chance of that is rare, and I should accept defeat, but I don't want my life hidden from me anymore.
I am not going to change myself. I won't hurt anyone because that's not me, but I'll get my answers even if force is necessary.
I'll do the smiles, the kisses, and the hugs, but I need the truth. Whether it kills me or opens my freedom.
I thought freedom was the ability to feel the wind caressing your face or a run in the park, but now it has become the truth.
My truth.
I look at Demi and rush to hug him.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"Nothing!" I beam.
He kisses my forehead and rests his hand on my head, his soft smile radiating kindness.
"Who's the bad lady?" I ask, looking up at him.
"You're remembering." It was meant to be a question but turned into a command.
Maybe Mr. here wants me to remember. All this time, I considered him a bad guy, but as I see his kindness, I find myself questioning him.
