Six years have passed since I last spoke to my family.
The years stretched on, each day feeling like a lifetime, yet the memory of that fateful day remains etched in my mind, a scar that refuses to fade. It was supposed to be a day of celebration—my high school graduation, a milestone marking the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. But instead, it became one of the darkest days of my life.
I remember standing on the stage, diploma in hand, my long black hair flowing like a shadow around me. My pale skin seemed even more translucent under the bright lights, contrasting sharply with the dark, heavy makeup that I had applied that morning in a vain attempt to shield myself from the world. My classmates around me were all beaming with joy, their faces glowing with the flush of achievement, their eyes gleaming with the anticipation of the future. Their families, dressed in their finest, cheered them on, their proud voices filling the auditorium like a wave of warmth and love.
But for me, the celebration felt hollow. I was surrounded by strangers, people who I had spent years with, yet who felt more distant than ever. My eyes scanned the crowd, searching desperately for a familiar face, but the sea of strangers' faces only deepened the void in my heart. Most of my family was nowhere to be found. The empty seats where they should have been sat in silence, a deafening silence that echoed louder than any applause.
That day was meant to mark the start of my journey into adulthood, into higher education, and into the world of writing—a passion I once held dear. My love for writing had been a constant companion, a safe haven where I could lose myself in words, where I could create worlds that were far removed from the reality of my life. But in the absence of their support and encouragement, that passion began to fade, buried beneath layers of hurt and resentment. The quill that once felt like an extension of my hand now gathers dust, a relic of a time when words flowed freely from my fingertips.
In the years that followed, I drifted further and further away from the family I once knew. My once beautiful family, brimming with love and care, slowly eroded away, leaving me a hollow shell. The dark circles under my eyes became a permanent feature, a testament to the sleepless nights spent wrestling with my thoughts, with the ghosts of my past. My clothes, once a mixture of gothic, youthful rebellion, have become more subdued, more practical, as if I'm trying to blend into the crowds, to disappear.
I often wonder why such a chasm exists between us, but the answers remain elusive, buried beneath years of unspoken grievances and unanswered questions. The few memories I have of my family before that day are blurred, tinged with a bitterness that I can't seem to shake. I don't know what happened that day. I don't know if I ever want to find out… but I miss them. I wish we could be a family again, but they shattered my heart that day. I don't know if—
"Lucy!" The sharp, disgruntled voice snapped me out of my thoughts, startling me so much that my pen slipped from my hand, leaving a jagged line across the page. I looked up to see Mr. Crock standing in the doorway of my tiny office at the library, his broad frame nearly filling the entire space. His balding head gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light, and his eyes, small and beady, bore into me with a mixture of annoyance and impatience.
"Oh… Mr. Crock, I was just—" I began, but he cut me off with a dismissive wave of his hand, his face contorting into a sneer.
"Writing off your break. Again," he finished for me, his voice dripping with condescension. I felt a flush of shame crawl up my neck, but I didn't say anything. There was no point. Mr. Crock had a way of making me feel like a child being scolded, no matter how much I tried to defend myself.
"You were supposed to mark down these books yesterday. What the hell aren't you getting, Loud?" His voice rose in pitch as he continued his tirade, his face reddening with anger. He always called me by my last name, a constant reminder of the family I had tried so hard to forget.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, barely above a whisper, as I reached for the stack of books on my desk. My hands trembled slightly as I began sticking discount stickers on the covers, my mind racing with a mixture of fear and frustration.
As I worked, Mr. Crock's demeanor shifted. His anger faded, replaced by a sleazy, almost predatory smile that sent a chill down my spine. "So… about your future in the company," he started, and I froze. I knew exactly where this was going, and every time he asked, I always said no.
"We should discuss it over dinner. My place."
Every. Single. Time.
"I don't know, sir," I mumbled, keeping my eyes trained on the task at hand, hoping he would just leave it at that.
Mr. Crock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Loud, if you don't want to discuss this, you can leave. There are plenty of other people who can take your job." His words were laced with an unmistakable threat, and I felt a knot of anxiety tighten in my chest.
"Well, I can't really afford to lose this job. My family needs the money." It was a lie, one I had used countless times before, but I could tell from the look on his face that he wasn't buying it this time.
"Don't give me that bullshit," he spat, his eyes narrowing. "You know as well as I do that your family abandoned you the second you moved. You have no one to go home to, so why not just say yes? It'll make both our lives a lot easier."
The venom in his words stung, and I winced, but I couldn't deny that he was right. My family had abandoned me. They'd left me all alone to fend for myself, and the thought made my blood boil.
"Fine. I'll do it," I snapped, my frustration getting the best of me.
"Good. Be there at 8." He smirked, satisfied with my response, and turned to leave, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway as he walked away.
I watched him go, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of being near him, but I had no choice. If I didn't, I'd lose my job, and then what would I have? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I hated my situation. I hated my family for abandoning me. I hated Mr. Crock for taking advantage of me. But most of all, I hated myself for being too weak to walk away.
It was several hours later, just a bit over 8pm.
I found myself sitting in my car, staring up at the house I had been dreading all day. The modest, suburban home was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the dim porch light that flickered every few seconds. I didn't want to go inside. I didn't want to subject myself to whatever depraved fantasy Mr. Crock had concocted, but I had no choice.
Taking a deep breath, I exited my vehicle and made my way to the front door. With a shaky hand, I knocked three times, each one feeling like a nail in my coffin. After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open, revealing Mr. Crock standing there in a pair of sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. The sight of him made my stomach churn.
"You're late," he stated, stepping aside to let me in. His eyes raked over me, lingering on my chest, and I resisted the urge to turn and run.
"Sorry. Traffic was bad," I lied, trying to keep my voice steady.
He hummed in response, leading me into the dining room. The room was dimly lit, the table set for two with a simple meal. I took a seat at the far end of the table, as far away from him as possible, and forced myself to make small talk.
"Is your wife home? Or your children?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The last thing I wanted was to be alone with him during this nightmare.
"No, they're at their grandparents for the night. So, it's just us," he replied with a smirk, setting a plate of food in front of me before taking a seat across the table. I stared down at the meal in front of me, surprised by how good it looked. My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn't eaten a proper meal since… well, since I last spoke to my family. Everything I ate nowadays was just cheap pre-made dinners from the frozen aisle. It was almost like he reached into my personal life and knew about my poor eating habits, like he was tempting me.
We ate in silence, the only sounds coming from the clinking of silverware against the plates. I kept my eyes downcast, not wanting to make eye contact with Mr. Crock. I knew that if I did, I would lose my appetite entirely.
When we finished, he cleared the table and returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He poured a generous amount into each glass and set one in front of me, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"Ease up, Loud. We're just talking. Take a sip," he coaxed, his tone sickeningly sweet.
I hesitated, but eventually took a small sip. The wine was bitter, but not unbearable. I set the glass down, my fingers trembling as I awaited whatever twisted game he had planned next.
"Now, about your job…" Mr. Crock began, and I felt my heart sink. I didn't want to hear whatever came next, but I knew I had to endure it. I kept my gaze fixed on the glass of wine, watching the liquid ripple slightly as he leaned forward, his voice lowering to a more intimate tone.
"You've been working here for what, three years now? You're one of our best Lucy, but you're not putting yourself out there enough. You're a smart girl, but you need to understand how things work in this world. The amount of potential you have is barricaded by… well. You."
My stomach churned as I realized where this conversation was headed. I had heard enough whispers and seen enough lingering glances to know that this was the moment he had been waiting for.
"Potential?" I echoed, forcing myself to play along, though my voice wavered. "What kind of potential are you talking about?"
He smiled, a slow, predatory grin that made my skin crawl. "The kind that can get you ahead in life. But only if you're willing to… cooperate."
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "And if I don't?" The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I immediately regretted it.
Mr. Crock's expression darkened, the friendly façade dropping in an instant. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied me, his eyes narrowing into slits.
"If you don't, then you can kiss that job goodbye," he said bluntly, his voice cold and devoid of any pretense. "And we both know that without this job, you're not going to last long."
I could feel the walls closing in around me, the air growing thick and oppressive. He was right—without this job, I had nothing. No income, no safety net, no family to fall back on. I was alone, trapped in a corner with no way out. The weight of my situation settled heavily on my shoulders, crushing any remaining resistance I had left.
For a long moment, the room was silent, the tension palpable. I could feel Mr. Crock's eyes boring into me, waiting for my answer, knowing that I had no choice but to comply. Finally, I nodded, barely able to meet his gaze.
"Okay," I whispered, the word slipping out like a death sentence.
His smile returned, smug and victorious, and he raised his glass in a mock toast. "Smart girl. You'll see, this is just the beginning. I'll make sure you get everything you deserve."
But all I could think was that I had already lost everything that mattered.
After two hours, it was finally over. I felt like I had been hollowed out, my body moving mechanically as I dressed and prepared to leave. Mr. Crock was in the other room, probably enjoying his own sense of triumph, while I tried to keep my hands from shaking. The taste of cheap wine lingered on my tongue, mixing with the bile rising in my throat.
I didn't even remember how I got to my car or how long I sat there, staring blankly at the steering wheel. My mind was numb, as if it had shut down to protect me from fully processing what had just happened. But I couldn't keep the thoughts at bay for long. The weight of my actions crashed down on me like a tidal wave, dragging me into a sea of despair.
I started the car, the engine's hum a distant noise in the background of my thoughts. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as I pulled away from the house, the streetlights casting long shadows on the empty road. The silence in the car was suffocating, and the reality of what I had done clawed at me, tearing at whatever shred of dignity I had left.
Somewhere in the distance, my phone buzzed, but I didn't reach for it. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to explain why I felt like my soul had been ripped apart. The only thing I wanted was to disappear, to fade away into nothingness where no one could ever find me again.
Eventually, I found myself parked outside my apartment, though I had no memory of driving there. The lights were off, the windows dark. A fitting reflection of the emptiness inside me. I sat there in the driver's seat, unable to move, unable to even cry. My eyes felt dry and sore, as if they had shed every tear I had left long ago.
I didn't know how long I sat there, but eventually, I forced myself to move, to get out of the car and head inside. The apartment was silent, the air thick with the smell of neglect and dust. I kicked off my shoes and made my way to the bathroom, my steps heavy and unsteady.
When I reached the bathroom mirror, I stopped, staring at my reflection. The girl looking back at me was a stranger—her once vibrant eyes now dull and lifeless, her skin pale and ugly. Her hair, dark as a raven's wing, hung limply around her face, framing the hollow expression of someone who had nothing left to give.
"You're pathetic," I whispered to my reflection, the words slipping out like a hiss. "Weak, stupid, ugly." The insults came easily, each one cutting deeper than the last.
Before I knew it, my hand had reached out, grabbing the edge of the mirror. My grip tightened, the glass cold and unyielding under my fingers. "Worthless," I spat, my voice growing louder, more frantic. "Disgusting. Bitch!"
With a sudden burst of anger, I yanked the mirror off the wall, smashing it onto the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the small bathroom, the pieces scattering like a broken mosaic across the tiles. I stood there, panting, staring at the wreckage of what used to be my reflection.
The rage drained out of me as quickly as it had come, leaving me feeling even more empty than before. I sank to the floor, my knees pressing against the cold tiles as I reached out to touch one of the broken shards. It was sharp, the jagged edge glinting in the dim light.
Without thinking, I picked it up, the sharp point digging into my skin. The pain was sharp, real—something that cut through the numbness that had settled over me. I watched as a small bead of blood welled up, a stark contrast against my pale skin.
It wasn't enough. The pain wasn't enough to drown out the shame, the guilt, the self-loathing that consumed me. I needed more, needed to feel something, anything that could make the darkness inside me go away.
So I pressed the shard harder against my skin, dragging it across my wrist in a slow, deliberate motion. The blood flowed freely now, staining the floor in a dark, crimson pool. I didn't care. I just wanted to stop feeling so empty, so broken.
But as the pain intensified, a small, nagging voice in the back of my mind whispered that this wasn't the answer, that this wasn't going to fix anything. That this was only making things worse. But I silenced that voice, focusing only on the pain, on the relief it brought, however temporary.
The sound of my phone buzzing again broke through the haze, but I ignored it, too lost in my own despair to care. All I wanted was for the world to disappear, to fade away into nothingness where I could finally be free from the weight of my own existence.
But even as I tried to drown out the world, a single thought kept pushing its way to the surface: I deserved this.
I deserved every ounce of pain, every drop of blood. I deserved to suffer for the choices I had made, for the person I had become.
And I deserved to be alone.
As the buzzing of the phone persisted, it began to cut through the fog in my mind. I stared at it for a long moment, hesitating, before finally reaching over to grab it with my blood-stained hand. The screen flashed with a name that seemed so distant now despite her being my last connection to Royal Woods—Persephone.
I almost let it go to voicemail again, but something in me, maybe the last shred of whatever humanity I had left, made me swipe to answer.
"Lucy?" Persephone's voice was soft, concerned, the familiar warmth in her tone almost unbearable. "I've been trying to reach you. Are you okay?"
I swallowed hard, my throat raw from the screams I hadn't let out. "I'm… fine," I lied, my voice barely above a whisper.
There was a pause, and I could hear the faint sounds of her breathing, the rustle of fabric as she shifted. "No, you're not," she said gently. "Lucy, please. Tell me what's going on."
I wanted to brush her off, to end the call and disappear back into the void, but something in her voice stopped me. The concern, the love, the familiarity—it all came rushing back, cracking the walls I had built around myself.
"I… I did something," I finally admitted, the words heavy on my tongue. "Something… horrible."
Persephone didn't respond right away, but I could hear the way her breath hitched, the tension in her silence. "What happened?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Lucy, whatever it is, you can tell me."
Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision as I looked at the mess of shattered glass and blood around me. "I—he made me… I didn't want to, but he said… he said I had no choice." The words tumbled out of me, a disjointed confession that barely scratched the surface of the shame I felt.
"Who?" Persephone's voice was firm now, the concern edged with anger. "Who made you do what, Lucy?"
"My boss," I choked out, the bile rising in my throat. "He… he said I'd lose my job if I didn't… comply. I couldn't say no. I needed the job, Persephone."
Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating. When Persephone spoke again, her voice was tight with barely suppressed rage. "Lucy, tell me you didn't—"
"I did," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I did it, and now… I can't take it back."
I could hear Persephone's sharp intake of breath, the anguish in her silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, pained. "Lucy… oh, Lucy. What have you done to yourself?"
I glanced down at my wrist, the blood still flowing, though slower now. "I… I just wanted to feel something else, something other than… this." My voice cracked on the last word, the tears finally spilling over.
"Lucy, listen to me," Persephone said urgently, her tone shifting to one of desperation. "You need to get help. I know you Lucy… don't cut again, please. Please, Lucy, promise me you'll take care of yourself."
"I don't know if I can," I admitted, the words barely audible.
"Yes, you can," Persephone insisted, her voice trembling with emotion. "I'm coming over, okay? I'll be there soon. Just hang on, please. Don't do anything else."
For a moment, I just sat there, holding the phone to my ear as her words washed over me. Maybe I didn't deserve help, or kindness, or forgiveness. But Persephone's voice was the only thing keeping me tethered to the world, the only light in the darkness that threatened to swallow me whole.
"Okay," I finally whispered. "Okay, I'll try."
"Good," Persephone said, her voice softening with relief. "Stay with me, Lucy. I'll be right there, I promise."
As the call ended, I felt a small flicker of hope, buried deep beneath the pain and guilt. It was fragile, fleeting, but it was enough to keep me from slipping further into the abyss. For now, it was enough.
Despite how pathetic I am for relying on someone to save me.