• dynasty • | gnr | kiss | bon jovi |

•10•

Using an immense amount of mental strength, I manage to hold back the tears. The sting of Stan's words still resonate through my chest as I crawl down the ladder and into his bedroom, probably because they're true.

His room is half the size of my closet, and I felt the need to complain to him about how daddy doesn't love me. How considerate.

He isn't there when I arrive, which is good. I stand there awkwardly, wringing my hands, until my eyes fall onto his bookshelf.

I'm drawn to it, so I drift over and look through the book titles. I smile at the sight of 'Gatsby' and 'The Glass Castle,' classics I wouldn't expect Stan to own. I reach out to grab a book but something else tucked among the covers catches my eye- a worn-looking notebook.

I glance over my shoulder and slide it off the shelf. It's filled with page after page of what seems like poems, it doesn't take long for me to realize that they're songs. Once I do I'm far too guilty to intrude on his private work, so I flip to the end.

I'm about to close the notebook and replace it on the shelf when something else stops me.

If it weren't for her playing, I'd be unable to bear the sight of her.

The way she dresses sickens me, especially since I know what she really looks like. Every time I look at those disgusting white stockings and that hideous knee-length dress, I have to remember her high-heels and leather pants to keep from puking.

I hate the authority in her voice, I hate the way she looks at people, like she needs to fix them. And the entire world. Just like her father.

I hate her friends. I hate her privilege. I hate her house. I hate the way she does her hair.

I hate her.

I hate the way she looks at me, wide brown eyes filled with fear. What is she afraid of? Living? I hate that I even consider her enough to wonder.

I hate the way her hair catches the light in the sun. I hate the way her hideous skirt clings to her thin waist and the wide curve of her hips. I hate her perfect face, I hate the way she sees through my bullshit. I hate the way she makes me better. I hate the way she controls my mind unconsciously.

I hate the way she makes me feel. I hate the way she makes me want...

I hate her. I want her out.

I want her in.

I snap the notebook closed, wiping at the beads of cold sweat that've already collected on my forehead. My heart beats wildly, I can hardly breathe.

He couldn't possibly be talking about me, there's no way in hell. I'm sure it's Marty, she's got curves like the ones he described, and wide brown eyes. She's it, and I'm completely overreacting.

I jolt at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall and shove the notebook back in it's place, grabbing the book beside it so I don't look suspicious.

Stan has obviously cooled down. He stares at me neutrally and his eyes drift down to the book in my hands. "You found my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, huh?"

I nod quickly, sweating even more under his gaze. "Y-yeah. It's one of my favorite stories about racial justice, you know?"

He nods once. "I guess, but I always thought it was a love story."

I cock my head. "How?"

"The simple love a father has for his kids."

"Oh," I respond guiltily, thinking about what he said before. I put the book back on the shelf. "That does make sense."