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Veronica

S he wants him.

She wants him in a way that borders obsession—unhealthy, all-consuming, desperate. A fire scorching through her veins, fiercer than anything she has ever felt before. Not for anyone. Not for some of the hot boys from school who once whispered sweet lies in her ear. Not for Lyle Chesterfield from the chess club, who once held her waist like she was something to win. Not even for Ian Petrakis, the one she would have sworn she loved the most.

She wants Raidon Volkov, in a way no girl should ever desire a man thirteen years older than her.

But it’s okay. He doesn’t want her, anyway.

And she doesn’t blame him. No one wants a broken girl, is there?

Rusted around the edges and cracked down in the middle. A fabric so threadbare, it has become more of holes and loose stitches than a tapestry of beauty, disintegrating with every touch. So battered and pulled apart, there’s nothing left to mend.

Of course, he didn’t want a worn-out girl.

So, on the old tire swing beneath the old oak in front of her house, she had watched his car drive off into the night. The engine’s hums had resonated down the quiet street. And when the tail light had completely faded away, silence was left, yet the echo of his rejection rang in her chest.

A lump had formed in her throat, thick and suffocating, like something precious had been ripped off her hands. Because he was precious, indeed. He was a forgotten prince from a fairytale.

She had felt this familiar pain when Ian decided to cut her off. But only then, it wasn’t this much. It wasn’t this excruciating.

She didn’t feel like dying.

“We could be friends,” he had said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it—laced with regret, as though the word ‘No’ had been a choice he never wanted to make. Yet he didn’t take back his word.

His hand had remained on hers as his car arrived at her doorstep. He had gently squeezed it, as if that would release the agony of his unreturned affection. Their silent farewell had ended with her impulsive kiss on the birthmark below his left eye; she’d imagined a passionate, desperate response, a kiss born of overwhelming need. But instead, he had remained still, didn’t even spare her a glance as she opened the door and hopped out.

We could be friends.

The words echo in her head again and again.

Friends.

Friends can hold hands. They can share hugs. They share kind words and reassurances, no matter how empty and untrue. But she doesn’t want that kindness from him. Shiro gives her more than enough of that. She wants no consolation prize.

She wants more. She wants him. Not as a friend. But as a lover.

She wants to kiss him. And she wants him to kiss her back. Not a hesitant brush of lips. Not something fleeting and cautious. She desires a kiss that leaves no room for uncertainty, a kiss that is all-consuming. A kiss that devours, dragging her down and leaving her gasping for air.

She craves him, wants to taste him, yearns to be enveloped by him, to lose herself in the one thing Marlene deems unattainable for her. Love.

But friends don’t kiss, do they? And he desires a friendship with her.

And she thinks she can’t do it. The pain is too much. She won’t be able to bear it—because, in a moment, she envisions a day when, as his so-called friend, he confides in her about his romantic life. But the lover isn’t her. It’s some other woman. And she wants to be the woman. So when she pulls out her phone and hits the block button below his contact details, she hopes the door has shut between them for good.

Holding on to him will only hurt more. Distance and time will surely sever the bond between them. And one day, soon, she will no longer hurt this much.

A noise from the kitchen window to her right makes her put her phone away, her head jerking in the direction.

She had seen the kitchen lights even before she stepped down from Raidon’s car earlier. She knew Marlene was around. But the dread of knowing she arrived home before her, which meant a confrontation was definite today, didn’t even bother her much.

Science says you can’t feel pain and fear at the same time. Maybe they are right. The all-consuming ache clawing at her from the inside is worse than any fear she harbors for Marlene.

Swatting away the insect perching on her arm, she heaves herself off the tire, a gentle thud heard when her doc martens land on the grass.

The tire swings mid air, the leaves of the thick branch it’s hanging off rustling, slicing through the quiet of the night.

One step through the wooden door and she can already feel it, a haunting shadow clinging to every corner of the room.

Taking in a deep breath, she closes the door behind her, the emptiness of the house with so much furniture and pretty decor enveloping her in a chilling hug. She feels the compelling urge to turn around and run. But to whom? The man who is probably in his private jet already, flying back to his country? Or to Shiro, who is presumably having a nice dinner with his mom?

An unnamed agony consumes her from the inside. She truly feels alone in a moment when she just wants to be embraced by warm arms.

“Evening,” she whispers to Marlene, barely sparing the woman a glance as she crosses the living room, heading toward her room.

“I was beginning to think you wanted to sleep out there in the yard tonight,” Marlene says, her tone almost playful. It’s a trap, and Veronica knows.

There’s not going to be a warm moment between the two of them tonight. They’re not going to sit across from each other on the dining table and share a nice dinner. Not when the smell of alcohol lingers in the air—thick and suffocating.

The writing is on the wall, bold and clear; Marlene has tried to pour her frustration about a new case that’s starting to get annoying, or maybe her life in general, into a couple too many shots of vodka. But it didn’t quite work. She’s trying to release the tension by cooking. But it doesn’t seem to be working either. Now she wants to try a punching bag. And why go all the way to a gym or boxing ring when there’s this punchable daughter of a serial killer who lives under the same roof as her?

“Come here.” The shift in her tone is expected—sharp, instant and commanding.

Taking a deep breath, Veronica pulls off her backpack, dropping it on the couch. With her muscles tensing, she walks to the kitchen, her body bracing for Marlene’s treachery.

“Who was that?” Marlene asks, not breaking her gaze from the glass bowl in front of her as she massages dry herbs and seasoning into freshly cut chicken breasts.

“Who?” Playing dumb won’t work. It never does. But Veronica tries anyway.

Marlene pauses her action and turns around to face her, her eyes a canvas of malice. “Now, did you seriously think I didn’t see you come out of that flashy car?”

Veronica stares at the floorboard, even though the pattern isn’t suddenly intricate and intriguing. She just wants Marlene to get it done already.

“Are you gonna answer, or do I need to beat the truth out of you?”

There it is.

Veronica takes in a sharp breath. She has learned to break down Marlene’s beating, to measure the pain. It takes five minutes usually, ten if she’s really enraged—maybe the obnoxious leader of another team, Dain Torres, has succeeded in snatching another case from her.

“Speak!” Marlene roars.

“He was just a friend,” Veronica murmurs. Was because he is gone now. He was just a traveler. A passerby who paused briefly in her life. And now, he has moved on in his journey, leaving behind his scent that will soon fade away with time.

“A friend, right?” Marlene takes steps closer, so close Veronica can smell the alcohol in her breath, the aroma of ground ginger and nutmeg clinging to her hands, and her perfume that’s sickly sweet, suffocating. “And you have been out with him all day, haven’t you?”

Veronica says nothing.

“Answer me!”

A burning slap snaps Veronica’s head to the side, her vision titling as the dull headache from earlier explodes behind her eyes.

“Yes,” she chokes out, pressing a hand to her stinging cheek. But the tears that spill over have less to do with the pain spreading across her face, and more to do with the wave of icy hair, luminous eyes like amber caught in a dying flame, drifting away from her.

She has once dreamt up a tiny cabin in the mountains, filled with just enough books and the right amount of coffee as it snows in, and they are wrapped in each other’s embrace. But now, that will never happen. Because he is gone, just like the rest that ever gave her a glimpse of hope.

“Did you sleep with him?” Marlene breathes down on her, her voice seething. “You slept with him, didn’t you? I know you did. That’s what you are good at. He waves a few dollars at you and you opened your fucking legs for him like the little whore you are, isn’t?”

“I didn’t,” Veronica sobs, her voice breaking. Raidon is really gone. She never even got to touch his hair. She never got to hug him.

“You did,” Marlene insists.

“I said I didn’t. What part of ‘I didn’t’ do you not understand?!”

The words are out before Veronica can stop them. Too loud. Too defiant. Too fucking bold of her. And the flicker of reignited rage in Marlene’s eyes tells her she needs to expect the next hit.

“Fucking disrespectful wrench!”

The slap sends Veronica crashing to the floor. Pain explodes to her temple, her body absorbing the impact. But there’s hardly any time to process it all as Marlene’s fist tangles in her hair, yanking her upright.

A sharp gasp rips from her throat.

A second slap, then a third, a fourth and a fifth, until it all just becomes a blend of numbers floating around the dizzying room.

The next one is the most violent. It sends Veronica stumbling toward the left, her hip colliding hard with the sharp metal handle of the pasta cabinet.

She hisses loudly in pain, hands flying to cradle the fiery scorch on her hip bone. Her body shakes, agony growing into a pair of bony hands, squeezing her, crushing her from the inside.

Another gasp breaks past her lips as Marlene’s hand fist her hair again, dragging her backward, the heels of her doc martens scraping the floor.

“Were you actually raising your voice at me just now?” she snarls, grip tightening around the hair, loosening the band until strands fall over Veronica’s face, soaking in the hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

“No,” Veronica’s voice quavers, her head shaking desperately and rapidly.

“The next time you raise your voice at me again.” Each word is uttered through clenched teeth, her gaze dark and vindictive as her nails dig into her jaw. “I swear, I’ll pluck that tongue right out of your mouth!”

Then, without warning, she releases her hold violently. Veronica stumbles forward with such speed, and before she can catch herself, her lips are planting on the sharp edge of the marble counter, pain—hot and sharp—spreading across her mouth.

She fears she may have knocked off a tooth as the metallic taste of blood settles in her mouth. Slowly, she lifts her hand, touching her lips. It’s a wet and sticky feeling.

“Finish up the chicken,” Marlene orders, her footsteps receding, echoing down the hall a few seconds later. Then her door slams shut.

Then silence.

Silence. Isn’t that what’s always left after a violent storm? Silence, while the ruins lie around.

After a few minutes, Veronica manages to drag herself to her room, closing the door behind her before sliding to the floor.

The sob bursts from her chest before she can swallow it down.

She doesn’t know how long she sat there, sobbing. Time blurred between shaky sobs, fingers clawing at her arms, and quiet screams. But when it feels like the tears have run dry and the weight in her chests dulls to a throbbing ache, she forces herself up.

Her face burns from all the fingerprints left behind, her limbs heavy, and her entire body hollow. But she manages to grip the doorknob and pull it open, stepping into the dimly lit hallway, heading for the shared bathroom.

The sound of the bathroom door shutting echoes through the quiet house. She walks to the cabinet mounted on the wall beside the wash basin, pulling out the tiny white box with a red cross sign on the body. She sets the box on a counter where there’s a half-length mirror, her reflection staring back at her.

She looks like a mess—a doll from a horror movie, perhaps, with dried tears and caked patches left under her lids from melted mascara.

Leaning over the counter, her face comes an inch too close to the mirror. She raises a hand, touching her swollen lip tentatively. It doesn’t hurt much. Or maybe she’s just numb.

She fishes out a cotton wool from the box, soaks it in methylated spirit, then dabs the lip with it, over and over, gently, until the blood begins to clear, revealing the surprisingly shallow gash.

She feels a little relieved. This way, it can definitely pass for a slip in the shower—that’s the story she intends on telling anyone that cares to ask.

Finished with her lip, she tugs down her plaid skirt, exposing the raw, inflamed skin just right above her hip bone. And it looks worse when seen through the mirror—red, swollen, angry.

She brushes her finger over it, and unlike her lip, pain flares, sharp and unrelenting, forcing a hiss out of her.

She knew it was bad. Just not this horrific to look at.

Following the same procedure she did for her lip, she covers the now cleaned and treated inflammation with a bandaid.

In five days, the wound will heal. Both of them. It will become nothing but a faint scar. Or it may not even scar at all.

That’s the good thing about her physical scars—except for most of the ones on her back. The whips the exorcists used on her were truly brought from hell itself. The scars never healed. But Marlene’s horse whip doesn’t usually scar for long. Just a few weeks and it will be gone. They always erase with time.

But the other scars? The one buried deep? The one no one sees?

They don’t heal. Instead, they are rotting inside her at the moment, feeding on whatever is left of her soul.

And she knows, deep down she knows.

They will never go away. Even if she successfully escapes from Marlene’s clutches. The scars will follow her, even to the grave.

“Are you preparing the chicken or are you reflecting on your pathetic life in front of the mirror you foolish girl?!”

Veronica takes in a sharp breath.

Her entire body is sore. All she wants to do is lay down a bit. But she won’t be doing that. Because if she does, Marlene will come back.

With a horse whip.