Entwined

Laceration

**Disclaimer:**This chapter contains themes of neglect, abuse, and emotional turmoil. Reader discretion is advised due to sensitive content that may be disturbing or triggering for some individuals. The narrative explores complex relationships and the lasting impact of childhood trauma on the protagonist's life. Some scenes are described in general terms as the writer has chosen not to detail certain events due to their graphic nature. Reader discretion is advised.

**************************************************************

Gregorie's POV

"Why would I even want that thing?" Mom yelled at Karol, one of her best friends.

I was four, sitting on the floor of our living room — hungry, cold, and lonely. Mom doesn't love me. Her friends tried to reason with her, but all I wanted to understand was why she didn't love me. Karol begged her to calm down, and I silently begged for some love.

I wanted her to know that I loved her, that I was confused, scared, and lonely... that I needed her. She forbade me from calling her "mom" or speaking to her at all. I should have been invisible, but even that I couldn't achieve.

"You look just like him. A fucking replica and you will also go to hell. I hope that you rot just like him in FUCKING HELL," she used to yell at my face. All the time. Whenever I was visible and she was reminded that I lived with her, she would beat me, throw stuff at me, but most often, she would slap me. For no reason. She hated me.

I didn't have much. I didn't have anything. Mom... I mean, Lorelei, never bought me anything. I didn't have toys. Most of the time, I played with Mom's old paintbrushes and the almost finished tube of paints. I scrubbed paint out of the tubes like I scrubbed for any kind of affection. I cried in silence, tears cascading down my cheeks, pleading for the tubes to contain any color. I needed some color. Any color.

Isabella, Karol, and Vienna took care of me as best they could, but they couldn't always be there. They fed me and took me to school when they could, but Isabella became like a second mom. She surprised me with new clothes and outings to attractions like parks and cinemas. Sometimes, when her boyfriend allowed it, she took me to the opera in his private box. We would sit there for hours, listening to classical music.

I loved all forms of art. The only "toys" I had at home grew my passion for painting and drawing, while the opera fueled my love for music. I had a weakness for the cello, but Isabella gifted me a violin when I was seven.

As I learned to escape Mom's presence, I hid in the emergency escape stairs. I spent hours there, pulling all-nighters when she had men over. I cried because I was lonely. 

I needed my mom , I couldn't have a dad.

I had neither.

He didn't want me, and she hated me. At least they had that in common.

Sometimes, the living equaled the dead. Both cold and absent.

My childhood memories were filled with a distant, familiar sound — the clacking of Lorelei's high heels against the floor. Her heels echoed through my life. I listened to gauge if she was close enough to hide from or if I had time to disappear.

When I grew a bit older, my twelve-year-old self would dare to watch her from afar. She seemed happy with other people, with other men. She smiled, laughed, seduced, and gave "love." Fear, dread, hurt, and guilt were my constant companions. The only relief I felt was when she disappeared for days on vacation or for an exhibition.

Alone in the house, I wouldn't bother to switch on the lights. I would draw and paint for hours. When silence and solitude became too loud, I played the violin. At night, I roamed the city, trying to steal food and money.  Bouncers and prostitutes  talked to me. The ladies always complimented me.