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*Trigger Warning

"I had a one-way ticket to a place where all the demons go,"
~ Alive, Sia

I always prided myself on not giving a fuck about how other perceived me. Nobody else mattered. Their opinions did not matter. It didn't matter if whore was spat at me by almost everyone I'd come across. It didn't matter if I'd done a few dirty things to make a living—or, at the very least, to get by.

Niccolò was right when he said I'd hear worse. I did. I have. I do. Whore wasn't an insult. It was a fact. I slept with men for money, that was a fact. And I allow the fat, dirty pigs who 'buy' me to call me whatever names they want in bed—slut, bitch, baby girl...it meant nothing. Because they meant nothing.

But I remember the day my grandmother found out what I did for a living. I hadn't seen her for a year and a half. When I left, I made sure to avoid all the places I know she'd be. It was supposed to be the last time I ever saw her.

Except one day, at around twelve thirty am, I was on the street corner in nothing but a skimpy dress and a trench coat. Benji is the reason why I met Milan, and as it turned out, Milan knew all about street corners. She knew which ones to go to, which to avoid, which ones had all the wealthy folks driving around...she was the greatest connect a girl could have.

There was a country club where all the rich folk hung out after hours. And we'd stand on the corner or in that alleyway, and men would either bring us inside for a good time or pick us up as they left.

This country club was for elitists. There was no freaking way my grandmother was a member, so I figure she knew someone who was and they invited her. I use to find Cuban cigars in specialty boxes hidden in her closet. It never made sense where she got them from until now.

My grandmother use to hate staying up late. She'd be in bed at 7 and fast asleep by 8. You can imagine my surprise when the door opens and out wobbles my grandmother. She looked the same.

I was frozen. Unable to move. She'd glanced at me for a second and then kept walking, not a single hint of recognition in her eyes.

I'd thought that was it. That she would keep walking and that would be it.

But then, without looking back, she speaks.

"Come on, child."

I knew she was talking to me, but still I had glanced around cluelessly.

She stopped after a few more seconds and spun around, her eyes meeting mine.

"Now, Neila." Her tone was sharp. She was unfuckwitable. I cleared my throat and walked awkwardly towards her. The heels I had on were so freaking tall and I ended up stumbling as I reached her. Her hands shot out and she caught me, steadying me.

Once I was properly standing, she stepped back and her eyes slowly scanned my body in distaste. I wrapped my trench coat tighter around my frame, a futile attempt to cover what she'd already seen.

"Have you eaten?" She asked, meeting my eyes again. Her eyebrows were knitted together. "You've lost weight."

"I eat."

"Barely," she grunted. "Come back to my house, I'll fix something up for you."

I didn't miss the fact that she called it her house, making it known I definitely no longer lived there—and never would again.

"No."

"No, thank you," she snapped. "I taught you manners, child, use them."

"No, thank you."

She shook her head and harrumphed. "Fine."

With that, she turned and started walking off. I stared at her retreating form incredulously.

"That's it? You're not going to say anything about—"

"About your inability to keep your legs closed? Now, for money? No." She was facing me again, and I walked towards her. "I'm not surprised."

That hurt. I nodded. "Right."

"Don't get that tone with me. I did the best I could with you. Your daddy abandoned you, your mother died trying to—it messed you up." I opened my mouth to argue, but her glare made me think better of it. "You can say I'm wrong, but I know I'm not. A child needs parents. A mother and a father. You had neither. Even when your mama was here, she wasn't. Put that man before her child and drank herself to death. You deserved better."

"I don't care about them."

"Look at you, girl. So cold. So alone. This world isn't nice to girls like you. You better pray. Bring God back into your heart. Only He can save you."

"Enough with that," I sighed, turning away. "God never did shit for me."

She cupped my chin and forced me to look at her.

"Even if He did, you'd deny it was Him." Grandmother Simone shook her head and tsked. "A prostitute, Neila?"

"I did what I had to."

"You did what was easy." She let me go. "You were smart. You could have been great. But you made a choice to leave."

"Coulda, shoulda, woulda." I backed away. "Not like you stopped me."

"I am old, Neila. I was old when I took you in. I couldn't chase after you. Now that I think about it, maybe that's you wanted. For someone to chase you. For someone to care enough to."

I shook my head. "I don't care—"

"You've disappointed me. You haven't surprised me, but you've disappointed me." She shook her head. "I thought maybe you'd rise. You'd wake up and realize your past doesn't have to define you. But you chose to let it. You didn't rise. You didn't grow. You only got stupider with age. Lazier. Weaker. You fell. You'll only fall deeper, child. A life like yours takes you to only one of two places: jail or death. You want to die in jail, or in the streets with your dress hiked around your hips and strange men abusing you?"

"You don't know me. You never did."

"Maybe not."

"You think you do, but you don't. You know nothing. You and your stupid fucking religion and your stupid fucking ideas. Where's your God, huh? Where was he when my mother swallowed those pills? Where was he when she got in that car reeking of Vodka and Hennessy and slammed into that pole? What's he ever done for her, or me, or even you?" My voice rose with each word. "You're all alone! Is that what your God does? Take people?! He took your daughter. Took your husband. What kind of a God ruins lives without a second fucking thought?"

"I am at peace with my life, child. Are you at peace with yours?"

"Fuck you. You're nothing. You're fucking nothing. No one. No one cares about you. No one will grieve you when you're gone. You'll die alone."

"Are we still talking about me?"

Silence.

She sighed. "I will die with God in my heart and peace on my mind. I hope one day you can say the same."

That was the last time we ever spoke. She didn't care about anything I said. Wasn't hurt by my words. Because she had her God. She was at peace.

I always prided myself on not giving a fuck about how other perceived me.

But the disappointment in my grandmother's eyes...the way she spoke to me...that hurt me. Because there was a time when she was all I had. And I knew that after that night, I'd have nobody. I wasn't proud of how I'd spoken to her. She did try. She was over protective, and pushy as hell, but she tried to do right by me.

In return, I called her a bitch and disrespected her beliefs.

It didn't matter if I was only trying to hurt her to make me feel better. That was one of my lowest points.

And when I realized hurting other people didn't help, I started to hurt myself instead.

I think I'm addicted to my pain. I drown myself in it, bury myself so deep in it that it no longer registers in my mind. My brain no longer sends signals to the rest of my body, telling me when something should hurt. I no longer knew when to say ouch, no longer knew when the tears were needed or necessary. I'd done everything I could to shut that part of me off.

I wasn't seeing things as black and white anymore. Everything was grey. Bleak and colorless. Like an old film without the vibrance color brings. Like child from a broken home.

It was fine. My grey world didn't prevent me from seeing the color in other people.

Tyler. He, amid all the darkness and evil his eyes witnessed, was a vivid blue. Almost as dark as the ocean in some parts, almost as clear and bright as the sky in others. But like he said, he wasn't free of sin. His edges were black. Cold and hard like coal, still with the possibility of becoming as bright and pure as a diamond.

If I thought it'd actually mean anything, I'd hope for only my edges to be charred. But I knew better. Darkness consumed me. And I can't pin my troubles on anyone—not Tyler or Milan or Chris or even Niccolò. My pain is my fault. I'd been too trusting in these people. I figured people this fucked up had no reason to burn me.

Of course, being one step behind also meant being one below. And if everyone's above you, no one can catch you when you fall.

And I fell, hard and fast, in a pit full of emptiness and darkness and shame. Just like my grandmother said I would.

I used that emptiness as a reason to get lost.

There was a time I was fascinated with the sight of my own blood. The color, the thickness, the warmth. I'd only cut three times in my life, and the last two never felt as good as the first.

I remember the cool blade as it touched my skin. My heart was racing. I never understood it until that very moment. Why did people cut? Why harm yourself? It wasn't to feel something. It was to get lost.

I was lost. The first cut was exhilarating. Dragging the blade against my skin, watching the crimson red liquid trail down my arm. It was beautiful. I loved how it contrasted with my skin. Loved how it dripped to the floor. Drip. Drip. I barely even felt the pain of my skin breaking.

The second time I cut wasn't so beautiful. It didn't feel like the first time. I'd done it before. It wasn't fresh, it wasn't new. It hurt.

The third time was my last. Chris kept me away from sharp objects for four months. Said my scars were ugly, and he was right. They were. Ugly to look at, and an ugly reminder of how ugly my pain was. But those scars were more bearable to look at than the ones beneath the surface. Those scars weren't as deep as the ones I couldn't see. Those scars only showed part of my pain.

I wasn't the only one who fed off my pain now. Niccolò did too. And, for some reason, I knew he could see my invisible scars as well.

He rolled off of me and laid on his back to catch his breath. My throat hurt. My back hurt. I hurt. My brain was back to telling me when to feel pain, and I felt it now. So much of it.

I stared at the ceiling.

I hated it. Hated how good our sex was—how fucking great it was.

I wanted to kill him. I wanted him to die. I wanted to see his blood. It was only right. It was only fair.

But what I wanted didn't matter.

"Why do you keep having sex with me?"

I turned my head. Looked at him. I didn't even realize he was now standing. He walked over to a dresser and pulled out some sweatpants. He owns sweatpants?

He takes a moment to answer me, almost as if he wasn't sure or the answer himself.

"Because you let me."

I swallowed thickly. That simple, huh? Looked back up at the ceiling. I don't know why I was so fascinated with it all of a sudden. Maybe it was easier to look at than him.

"Do you feel anything? When you're inside me?"

I had no idea what I was asking. Had no idea where I was going with this.

He didn't either, based on the long pause he took before answering. "Your walls?"

"No," I shook my head and sat up. He watched me carefully as I stood and walked towards him. He was tense now. On guard. My head tilted to my side and my hair fell into my face. I pushed it back, grimacing when I felt my matted strands slick with sweat. My hand went to his chest. "Here. What do you feel here?"

"Nothing."

It was the response I expected, and I wasn't the slightest bit offended. His skin was hot underneath my touch.

"I feel..." I trail off, my eyes narrowing in thought. "Dark. You know? I can't explain it. It's like the second you're inside me, I'm surrounded by heat and darkness. It's like Hell."

He doesn't reply. Just stares at me.

"Why am I in Hell every time we fuck?" I bite my lip. "Maybe I'm feeling what you feel. Like when you look at a painting and you feel all the emotions the artist felt when he created it."

He pushes my hand away and my arm falls limply to my side. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You're not just fucking me because I let you. And I'm not fucking you just because it's great and I'm horny. We have sex because we're trying to figure each other out."

His eyes harden. "I fuck you because I like sex. Don't read into shit that is not there."

"Tell the truth."

"I am."

"What do you feel?" I pushed.

"Get out."

I stop. Watch him. He's backed away from me, eyes cold, hands balled into fists. He's angry. He's holding back, but I can see he's angry. And he wants to take it out on me. Licking my lips, I nod and gather my clothes, quickly pulling them on as he watches. Before I close the door, leaving him alone, my eyes meet his again.

"Keep lying to yourself. It's probably better, anyway."

*****

I am called Rose, what about you?

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