Page 17 of Make Me Scream (Visceral #2)

ABEL

I can’t see through the tears.

I know the flame flickers—I can feel it charring the skin on my thumb, the sensation painfully familiar, but I’m frozen at what I know is my mother’s face staring back at me in my memory.

Her blotchy, bruised skin and weak smile. My tiny, frail body hanging in her arms. That dirty, twin-sized mattress on the floor in some random drug dealer’s house. But the thing that sticks with me is the date at the very bottom of the Polaroid.

Abel. October 11 th .

The only proof I have of my real birthday, and I’m about to obliterate it.

With shaking hands and a racing heart, I bring the orange flame beneath the photo where Lucy’s face is and watch as it slowly melts through the instant film. The plastic and chemicals are consumed by the flames, producing smoke as it smolders out, eating its way through the photograph.

I watch my infant face slowly melt away into nothing, and I find something painfully apt about that.

As the photograph is eaten, a few random sparks shoot out, making me jolt and drop the Polaroid into the basin of the sink.

Ash scatters, staining the bowl. “Shit.” I reach down to grab it, but it’s nearly consumed in its entirety at this point, and I have no choice but to watch me and my mother, locked in a memory eighteen years prior, incinerate like we were always meant to.

By the time there’s nothing but ashes and stains left, my chest aches, and my face itches from tears long since dried in their paths down my cheeks. I’m hollow and resolute, and I feel not one bit better about what I’ve done, but it’s over with now, and I can’t go back.

What good has it done me anyway, holding onto something like that? It’s never been proof enough in the eyes of Child Protective Services. All it’s been is Lucy’s handwriting on a photograph—nothing more, nothing less. A photograph they can’t prove is even me.

My word against the world’s—and it counts for nothing.

I’m still stuck in this vicious cycle. Forced to go where they tell me, required to follow the trail each person in front of me has taken. And it hurts. Knowing it doesn’t matter who I am and what I want. That I don’t want to go and that maybe—just fucking maybe— I’m finally content?

Because fuck Bill and Lucy and everyone else in the world. Elise has been a savior from the highest heavens. I have no idea what the hell I did to deserve her presence in my devilish life, but the fact she’s about to be ripped away tells me all I need to know.

It was always supposed to happen this way.

Fate isn’t a thing, but perhaps circumstance is more relatable, the roll of the dice and all that. I get beat up; Elise is working the ER that night. She takes care of me, and Bill makes some calls, etcetera.

Her son being Peris was the best fucking wrench of all—one that makes me want to lean toward the best twist of a possible fate—if it ever were to exist because what are the fucking chances that the boy I had become wildly obsessed with was now my foster brother?

And now… now we’re a filthy mirage, and I can’t tell my way up from the bottom of this endless illusion.

He’s different now—since she showed up. Clinging low and close, refusing to leave my side. Acting like he actually cares, then going and burning my fucking dick—as hot as that was, I muse with a smirk.

I don’t know… I can’t know how to handle any of this. The hot, the cold, every aching thing in between. It’s whiplash of the worst kind, and I’m about to snap my fucking neck from the force of it all.

Am I supposed to hold on and fight? Is that what Peris expects of me?

I laugh coldly at the thought, dragging my fingers through the cooled ash, smearing it across the white porcelain, staining it.

It’s like, even after all this time, he still has no idea who the fuck I am.

I’m Abel Silver, and I’m a selfish fucking bastard.

I take what I want, and I do what I want—everyone else be damned.

I’ve been living in a dream world, and it’s about time I’ve had my reality check.

Because when it comes to my survival, no one else matters, and it’s about goddamn time I get back into that headspace.

I slam my door with tears in my eyes, hating myself more than I have in my entire life.

With each deep, shuddering breath, I inhale the chemicals Peris smelled on me and in the room, feeling guilt gnaw at me with each intake, hating myself just a little more—but with that feeling comes a little more calm.

I can deal with self-hatred. I’m intimately familiar with it.

But I can still feel his fingers wrapped so delicately around my throat, I nearly scoff. Delicate is far from the right word. He held me harshly and tightly, but it felt like I was his little doll he was holding still for closer inspection—to check for cracks or broken pieces.

And that’s what nearly breaks me.

How fucking different he’s been.

He’s not the Peris I’m used to—the mean, vile, repulsive, angry boy I’d come to know and…

regard. I mean, he’s still the same angry boy, but his disgust with me, his revulsion with himself…

it’s still there. I sense it in the quick flashes of his eyes before he leans closer.

A quick wince before he touches me, but it’s like his…

his obsession has taken hold, and he’s different.

No longer is he vile, but he shares these tender moments that make me utterly fucking sick because what the fuck.

This is not what I wanted from him and with him.

I want the wrathful Peris from August. He is much easier to stomach… because I can say goodbye to him.

I…

I don’t think I can say goodbye to this Peris.

I don’t think I can hurt this Peris. Because I don’t think this Peris can hurt me.

It’s… it’s insane to think because he hurts me all the time with his cruel words and strong hands, but truly, maddeningly, he doesn’t. Not more than I want or than I can handle. Because this is us, our fractured souls and dancing demons.

Our respite in the madness.

With a shaky sigh, I drop my clothes to the floor until I’m clad in nothing but my thin, black boxers. The chill of the air skitters over my skin, and I shiver, crossing my arms over my stomach and curling in on myself.

My bones stick out from my skin, even after weeks of eating daily—and healthily, at that. Years of malnutrition will leave me small for the rest of my life, I’m sure of that.

I huff a laugh. I’ll forever be a fucking twink.

But maybe it’s my own fault because tonight, I walked out there, looked at all the wonderful food Elise made, and I didn’t eat a bite of it.

She piled my plate high with a smile to match, and I sat there, stewing in my own bullshit because Peris hurt me with his nasty little words, and I let him.

And I ruined Thanksgiving dinner because of it.

Shaking the distress from my limbs, I reach for my pants on the floor and pull out my phone before crawling into bed.

I yank the blanket up to my chin and curl onto my left side before pulling up my text thread with Peris, noticing a bunch of texts that have gone unseen and unanswered from earlier in the day.

Something akin to shame burns across my face as I skim the words, squirming as the warmth curls down my face and into my stomach, settling uncomfortably.

Peri boy:

Are you there?

How is it going?

Is she being a fucking bitch?

Do you need me to come get you?

Abel.

Answer your fucking phone.

I’m going to beat your ass, runt.

Jesus Christ, you’re pissing me off.

What is going on?!

Ok.

It’s that last one that makes my stomach sink to an uncomfortable depth—him just giving up.

Fuck.

I really am a piece of shit.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until a tear splashes across the screen, and I have to wipe it away and accidently hit the call button as I do so. I watch in horror as my face illuminates the screen as it rings, the sound echoing in the darkness of my room. And then, I see his face.

“What.” Not a question… but he answered.

“Uhh… hey.” Real fucking eloquent, Abel. Genius.

He sighs. “Why are you calling me when I’m in the next room, Abel?”

“Erm…” I wince. “I don’t know?” I drawl, posing it as a question. This makes Peris chuckle quickly, and I smile into the phone on a sniffle.

“All right.”

“I just read all your texts,” I say quietly.

“‘Bout fucking time.”

“I know…” I reach up and grip the back of my neck and squeeze. “I’m… s-sorry. And I’m sorry I ruined Thanksgiving dinner.” I wince, hating that word more than anything. It’s bullshit, and it never means what people think it does, but for the first time, I find myself actually meaning it.

Static clings to the line. “You’re… sorry,” he deadpans.

“Yes.”

“Okay, Abel.”

“Okay?”

“What would you like me to say?” he drawls, and I hear his bed creak in the receiver. I feel myself shiver as his tone drops, and I curl further in on myself.

“Nothing, I guess,” I mumble into the mattress.

“All right, runt.”

“Jesus.” That one word seems to shift the tone of the conversation, and Peris chuckles.

“You’re so predictable, you know that, puppy? Pulling hot and cold, playing on everyone’s emotions like it doesn’t matter,” he speaks right into the receiver, and I hear the clench of his teeth as he grates them together.

My heart gallops, and I swallow the excess saliva that has built up in my mouth. Peris sounds angry , and it’s amazing.

“Of course, it matters,” I whisper.

“Not to you, it doesn’t. It never does. You do whatever you want whenever, to whoever , without caring about who you hurt in the process as long as you get what you want.” His words are sharp and blunt and so fucking true.

I stiffen, locking my molars together, and fist the blanket. “What are you going to do about it then?” I ask.

A long pause. Long enough, I question if Peris even heard me. “What a good question, runt.” And then, there’s a click.