I was in my old house where I grew up. And my father stood right in front of me, with an open cut across his neck in a perfect image of his death. His gray, decomposing skin, worms emerging from his mouth. The imposing shadow, the stern gaze, the smell of alcohol mixed with cigarette smoke lingering in the air.
His slap came fast, like a whip, burning my skin.
"You should never have been born, Eve."
I tried to blink, to escape, but Valerian was inside my head, guiding me to the moments I had spent years trying to forget. My father twisted my arm harshly, slamming my head against the wall as I cried, begging him to stop.
"You killed me and your mother! It's your fault, you know it always will be!"
The words cut deeper than any blow he dealt me. I was trapped in that cycle, feeling ever
