Unspoken Hate

I've done it! I thought to myself when sitting down on the edge of my bed for the last time, looking around the room at my childhood bedroom. Oh, the stories these walls could tell. Thank goodness they are just walls and cannot talk. Coming from a well-known family, they've prided themselves on being in the limelight of social situations. Their friends and family would not understand the life I had chosen to live merely because they didn't understand. They didn't understand how one young man could have changed my entire perspective on life. I no longer wanted to join friends and family at the yacht club. I was too focused on his whereabouts, his needs, his feelings, heck, his safety even. Somehow, I have managed to lose who I am entirely and become so wrapped up in David Davendinko's persona. I have lost the last four years of my life to him, now barely hanging on by a thread. How did it get this bad? We went from a new relationship, young and in love, to a violent tycoon of a power couple. David and I were now some of the largest bosses in the region. It only ever meant to be a means to party; coordinating dime bags from friend to friend, but then business kept growing. Along the way though, David became obsessed with power and greed. Killing and hurting others became too much of the normal, adding power and gangs along the way; he was no longer my love, he was a monster. I got up from my bed and walked over to my floor-length mirror. My hair, golden curls, swept just right down over my shoulders, giving me the perfect framing around my face. Leaving my hair down, draws attention away from the scars that lined my pale porcelain cheeks. I avoid tanning. Keeping my skin as light as possible helps hide the scars I have acquired. They are not something I am exactly proud of. As I stare into my gray eyes, all I can see is hollow emptiness. David just wasn't a monster. I had become a monster too. Their monster. Pulling my arm back, I reached out swinging, smashing the mirror - letting out a gut-curling scream. Knowing I was about to hurt them all, I grabbed the backpack I had by the door and headed out. Ignoring the blood running down my hand, I headed for the car. This was it, my one chance to leave, to start over, to create a new identity. I backed out of the driveway, took one last look at my home, and took off. I did it. I made it out. But now what?