Destined By Hate

CHAPTER-5

                                                                          ~Bella~

The walk home felt longer than usual. The cold air bit at my skin, but I barely noticed. My mind was still racing, adrenaline pulsing through my veins from what had just happened at the café. I replayed it over and over—the slap, the look on his face, the way my voice had trembled as I quit in front of everyone.

It should have felt freeing, but it didn't. Not yet. My hands were still shaking. I was still angry, still carrying the weight of everything else I couldn't shake off. The fight with Dad last night lingered, the way he stumbled through his words, trying to find some excuse for why he was out of money again, for why the rent was late. It had been the same old cycle: his debts, his lies, his promises to do better.

I pulled my jacket tighter around me, my breath visible in the chilly evening air. I didn't know what I was walking back to, but I knew it wasn't anything good. It never was.

When I finally reached the apartment, I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The familiar scent of stale cigarettes and beer greeted me, along with the usual mess of dishes piled up in the sink, bills scattered across the kitchen table, and the faint hum of the fridge. Dad wasn't home, not that I expected him to be.

I dropped my bag on the floor and collapsed onto the couch, my body finally letting out a sigh of exhaustion. My head still pounded from the lack of sleep, from crying, from everything. The apartment felt heavier than usual, almost suffocating in its silence. I wanted to scream, but I didn't. I never did.

Instead, I reached for my notebook—the one I'd kept hidden under the couch cushions—and flipped it open to the next blank page. Writing always helped. It was the one thing I could do that felt like mine, like I had control over something, anything. I picked up my pen, letting the words spill out onto the page.

Today was the day I finally stood up. I slapped him. I quit. I'm done pretending that I'm okay with everything, that I'm okay with being walked on. I'm not. I'm tired. I'm so tired of fighting for a life that feels like it's falling apart around me, no matter what I do...

I stopped mid-sentence, closing my eyes for a second, trying to push back the tears threatening to come again. I wasn't going to cry. Not again. Not tonight.

I set the notebook aside and stood up, peeling off my jacket. As I turned toward my room, something caught my eye—something that shouldn't have been there.

A suitcase.

It was sitting right by the door, zipped shut. I frowned. My pulse quickened, a sinking feeling growing in my stomach. I walked closer, my heart thudding in my chest, and that's when I noticed it. The drawers in my room—the ones that had been overflowing with my clothes just this morning—were empty. Completely empty.

I yanked one open. Nothing. I opened the next one. Empty, too. My closet, where I usually hung my few jackets and shirts, was nearly bare. Only a couple of hangers swayed gently, like they'd just been disturbed. My breathing hitched, panic creeping up my throat.

I knelt down beside the suitcase, my fingers trembling as I unzipped it. There, inside, were all my clothes. Neatly folded. Everything. My jeans, my shirts, my shoes. Even my notebooks. Everything I owned was packed into this single suitcase.

That's when I saw the note, stuck to the top of the pile, written in my father's messy handwriting.

Had to deal with some gamblers again. Lost big this time. Needed the money. I'll explain when I get back. Take care, kiddo.

I stared at the words, my brain struggling to process them, my chest tightening with anger. Had to deal with some gamblers again. What the hell did that even mean? He had lost big before, but never like this. He'd packed my things. He'd packed my life into a suitcase like I was nothing, like I was just another thing to sell off when he couldn't pay his debts.

I felt my pulse roaring in my ears, my hands shaking with fury. I crumpled the note in my fist, throwing it across the room. How could he do this? How could he sell me out like this again, like I was nothing but a pawn in his stupid games? This was my life. My future. And he'd thrown it away without a second thought.

I stormed back into the living room, pacing, feeling the anger building inside me, too big to contain. How could he? After everything, how could he? He wasn't just gambling away his money anymore—he was gambling with me, with my safety, my future.

I stood in the middle of the room, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, staring at the walls that suddenly felt like they were closing in on me. I was furious, shaking with rage, my teeth clenched so hard I thought they might crack.

He had gone too far this time. He had crossed a line.

And I wasn't going to let him get away with it. Not this time.