Page 89 of Broken by my Bully

“I almost pity you for not being able to appreciate the fucking irony.”

“Bastian!”

I ignore her wail, so sorrowful that the nurse I pass on my way out gives me a double take.

Go on. Call me Lucifer.

It’s taken me over a decade to draw that witch’s claws out of my heart.

I’m sure as hell not letting her sink them back in again.

I stalk past the reception counter, my ears buzzing with suppressed fury. I’m nearly at the exit when I hear someone calling my name. Not Evelyn. In her condition, her voice would never carry this far.

Turning, I tug at the sleeve of my tweed jacket. “Yes?”

The receptionist holds up a package wrapped in black paper embossed with vintage gold florals. “Your mother wanted you to have this.”

I consider leaving without taking it.

But one of the few things that kept me going through life was curiosity.

The woman behind the counter grimaces apologetically as she holds out the package. It’s the right size, and almost heavy enough, to be a ream of printer paper.

“We thought it best to keep it here, in case she forgot to give it to you.”

“Christmas isn’t for months yet,” I say dryly.

I’d open it, but that feels like giving in to her. My curiosity, however, is having a field day. I suppose that’s the only reason I came here in the first place when they called. I couldn’t care less if Evelyn dies of starvation. She’s using her own money to pay for this place, not mine.

Jonathan’s abrupt departure thirty-four years ago spurred her to become a strong, independent woman.

Sometimes, when I’ve had too much whiskey, and the night is pressing against the window panes, and the relief of being alone is warring with the pain of having no one, then, sometimes, I wonder if my father ever thinks of me.

How different my life would have turned out if he’d been in it.

He could have stopped her. Or he might have joined her. I could be a different version of myself.

Or not here at all.

Not all of Evelyn’s offspring survived childhood.

That, I suppose, was the point.

Haven

Kai is practically glowing with power. He has a psycho-villain grin on his face that’s both charming and utterly terrifying.

It’s so hard to believe this guy and the kid I used to play with are one and the same. But I guess we all change as we grow older. We tweak our dials—some of them for the better.

Why do I get the feeling he’s spent the past few years seeing how far he can turn his spite, resentment, and hate dials?

At least I know this class isn’t bullshit. Professor Rooke is teaching us some valuable life lessons, like how easy it is for someone to turn into a maniacal dictator.

The first two rounds of Kai’s Survivor game were awful. He read both sets of secrets out loud, and then everyone was looking around, trying to see who looked the guiltiest.

Bought a leaked copy of a high school test and used it to get an A.

Stole money from roommate’s wallet to buy weed.