My Toxin

Chapter 25

The atmosphere in the villa was thick, the kind of tension that could be felt in the air. The group gathered in the living room, each person seated at an awkward distance from the others. There was no laughter, no banter—just an uneasy silence. Kemi had locked herself in her room after the disastrous confrontation at the museum, leaving the rest of us to finally address what had become the elephant in the room.

I stood by the window, holding the manila folder tightly in my hands. I had been sitting on this information for months, unsure of what to do with it. But after today, there was no denying that something needed to be done.

"I need to tell you all something," I said, breaking the silence. My voice was calm but heavy. The others looked at me expectantly, their faces a mix of curiosity and dread. Marjorie sat on the couch, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her dress, while Chanel leaned against the armrest, her usual confidence replaced with quiet concern.

"This is about Kemi," I continued. "A while ago, I asked my dad's private investigator to look into her background."

Marjorie's eyes widened, her fidgeting stopping abruptly. "Alex, what? Why?"

"Because something about her wasn't adding up," I said simply. "And now I think you all need to hear what I found out."

I opened the folder, the stack of documents and photos inside feeling heavier than they should. "Kemi was born in England to Nigerian parents. When she was six, her mother abandoned her. She left her at a community center and never came back. Her father was never in the picture, so Kemi was placed in foster care."

The room was silent as I continued. "She was sent to live with a foster family in Birmingham. On the surface, they seemed perfect. A middle-class couple, regular churchgoers. But behind closed doors, it was hell. The foster father abused her—physically and emotionally—for years. The foster mother ignored it, and the whole system failed her. She was just a kid."

Chanel's expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That's disgusting," she muttered.

"It gets worse," I said, flipping to another page. "When she was twelve, she ran away from that house and ended up living on the streets for almost a year. When the authorities found her, they sent her back into care, but by then, she'd started acting out—shoplifting, vandalism, fighting. She bounced between group homes and foster placements for years. No one wanted her."

Marjorie's voice was barely above a whisper. "What happened after that?"

"When she was sixteen, she was placed with a family in Manchester. They tried to help her, but by then, the damage was done. She dropped out of school, got into trouble with the law. At seventeen, she attacked a teacher who tried to discipline her. That's when she was sent to a secure unit for a year. It was the only time she ever got consistent counseling, and it seemed to help. She got her GCSEs and eventually made it to university."

Nicole wiped at her eyes, tears streaking her face. "She's been through so much. No wonder she's... like this."

"Yeah," I said quietly. "She's been through hell. But that doesn't excuse what she's done to us."

Chanel crossed her arms. "So what do we do? We can't just ignore this, but she clearly needs professional help."

"She does," I agreed. "My mom reached out to a therapist who specialises in trauma. They suggested an intensive recovery program—therapy, life skills, the whole package. It's a year-long commitment, but it could help her turn things around."

Marjorie nodded, her voice firm. "We have to try. She deserves a chance to heal."

The group murmured their agreement, and we began discussing how to approach Kemi. But even as the conversation shifted, my mind was elsewhere, caught in a storm of emotions. Eventually, I stood and left the room, needing air.

I found myself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, when Marjorie appeared. She hesitated before stepping closer. "Alex, are you okay?" she asked, her voice soft.

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I turned to face her, my expression hard. "Did you kiss Jordan that night after your slam poetry event?"

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked like she might deny it. But then she sighed. "Yes," she admitted. "I didn't mean for it to happen, Alex. It just—"

"Just what?" I interrupted, my voice sharper than I intended. "Just happened because I left? Because you dismissed my feelings when I tried to tell you how I felt about that whole performance?"

She flinched, guilt flashing across her face. "Alex, I didn't mean to dismiss you. I was just... overwhelmed."

I shook my head, my chest tightening. "You don't get it, do you? I was trying to be there for you, trying to support you, and you brushed me off like I didn't matter. Then you go and kiss Jordan?"

Her voice cracked as she tried to explain. "It wasn't like that. It didn't mean anything."

"But it meant something to me!" I snapped, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Do you know what it felt like to hear about that from Kemi of all people? She called me a little bitch, Marjorie. Said I run after you like some lovesick fool. And you know what? She's right."

Marjorie's eyes filled with tears. "Alex, no—"

"Yes," I said firmly, cutting her off. "I've been chasing after you for years, bending over backwards for you, and for what? To be treated like this? To be the guy you take for granted?"

"I don't take you for granted," she whispered, but her voice was trembling.

"Then why does it feel like you do?" I asked, my voice breaking. "Why does it feel like I'm always the one who cares more?"

She had no answer, and the silence between us was deafening. Finally, I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I need to focus on myself, Marjorie. I can't keep doing this."

With that, I left the kitchen, the weight of the confrontation pressing down on me. Whatever happened next—with Kemi, with Marjorie, with everything—I knew I needed to figure out who I was without chasing after someone who didn't see me the same way.