Areston thinks he can shield me from his past, but what he doesn't realize is I'm already part of it.
The darkness that haunts him? It's the same one that's been chasing me for years.
I've given him everything-my body, my heart, my soul-and still...
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Heavy metal music pounds through my personal gym in the office, the tempo of my hard strikes matching the steady rhythm of bass. My breath is surprisingly even, controlled as I slam my fists into the heavy bag, every punch more brutal than the last in sync.
Whenever I want to silence the noise in my head that gets too loud, I choose to paint. Canvas, paint brush, and paint colors are my refuge when the colors black, white, and red—three colors that I love, but hate on a deeper psychological level—start to bleed at once, threatening to drown me.
Black—because of the basement Ronald, Martin, and Fletcher used to blindfold me, rape me, and make me watch them have sex in.
White—the custom-made hell they'd assigned me as my room to keep me mentally tortured.
Red—it was the color I used to bleed after they would be done violating me, abusing me, and it was also the shade of Japanese maple bonsai haunting me all the time in that white torture cell.
My paintbrush is my weapon of choice when I want to silence the demons without slaughtering them—not that they can ever be slaughtered. They'll always reside with me, like a part of me, only that with passing time, they will fade into the background as my husband says.
Besides, I need those demons. They are my reminders to always being vigilant and never too trusting. But not loud. Never loud.
However, when I need to harness those chaotic thoughts, shape them into a lethal weapon, I swap the canvas with Muay Thai.
With every strike, punch, and kick, my thoughts hone into a blade. That's how I map out the strategic moves I need to make—the ones that'll dismantle my enemy, split them apart to expose their weakness they tried so hard to hide—the ones they never see coming.
Running also serves a similar purpose. The rhythmic pounding of my feet against the pavement and the burn I feel in my lungs helps me stay focused to formulate the perfect aftermath that can follow the precise decimation because the world doesn't stop when enemies lose.
Making them lose is only the first step. Next is invading all that they own, make it yours fair and square—alright that's a lie—make it yours by hook or crook until all that's gone is not just their pride but everything, leaving nothing in the wake.
I've never gone for a piece of my rivals. That's not me. I go for the entire thing and that's cruel and also painful as my husband who lacks empathy likes to point out when I try to be a hypocrite and reason that my methods aren't as harsh as his.
"By the time the news hits the cycle," I say between the jabs, "RNN should be dominating every platform with the coverage. We have firsthand access to this whole shitshow so let's aim for complete domination. Even someone like makeup or food TikTokers who chose to avert from real news should be talking about the matter in their videos. The entire thing needs to be talked about for days, if not weeks."
