Guns and Roses

The world doesn’t know us

Saint Laurent

Most people think monsters aren’t born, they’re made.

Sculpted by pain. Sharpened by betrayal. Drowned in trauma until what’s left is teeth and rage.

But no one ever talks about the ones who didn’t choose to be this way.

Like me.

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be cold. Or violent. Or broken. Life decided that for me.

My first memory of chaos wasn’t even my own, it was my father’s. I was seven when I watched him smash a glass bottle over a dealer’s head in our living room. Blood sprayed the TV screen, and cartoons kept playing behind it like it was nothing. Like violence and normalcy belonged in the same breath.

Mom screamed that night. Packed her things. Said she deserved better. Said was done.

But she came back six months later with bruises under her eyes and a tremble in her hands. Said she couldn’t stay away from us.

Said she missed me.

And I believed her.

Stupid, right?

I held onto that version of her, the one who hummed old Sade songs when she braided my hair, the one who read me bedtime stories about warriors who won without ever lifting a sword. I kept her safe in a corner of my mind, even when the real her started to disappear again.

By the time I was thirteen, she was barely there. Fading like smoke, floating from one high to the next.

She died when I was fourteen.

Overdose. Heroin. Syringe still in her hand.

The same woman who left my father because he wouldn’t quit the drug game… wound up dead in a dirty apartment, foaming at the mouth with a needle between her fingers.

I laughed when I heard.

Not because it was funny.

But because the universe clearly has a sick sense of humor.

People want to believe pain makes you stronger. That scars are proof of survival. But they don’t realize sometimes pain just makes you worse. Sometimes it takes you apart and doesn’t bother putting the pieces back.

And I never really healed.

I just got good at pretending I did.

That’s the thing about me—I wear masks better than anyone. I can be charming, sweet, even thoughtful. I know how to make people feel special. Like they matter.

Like I’m safe.

But I’m not. I’m the fire behind the door you shouldn’t open.

I tried to tell Genevieve that in a thousand different ways. In every silence. In every warning look. But she kept knocking. Kept seeing something good in me, even when I swore it wasn’t there.

And for a moment, I wanted to believe her.

Wanted to believe I wasn’t just the product of every broken thing I’d lived through.

But the thing about people like me?

We don’t get love stories.

We get cautionary tales.

And if I had to play the villain to keep her from becoming collateral damage, so be it.

Let her hate me. Let the world call me a monster.

I’ve been called worse.

I’ve been worse.

And I’d rather burn alone than take her with me.

__________________________________________________________

Genevieve

The house was too quiet the night he said it.

Dad didn’t yell. He didn’t slam doors. He just stood there with his badge clipped to his belt and disappointment carved deep into the lines of his face.

“I know about your little meetings with Leo Saint-Laurent.”

I froze. Every word felt like a slam of a gavel.

“You think I wouldn’t find out? About the beach? About the rides home? About how he’s been calling you ‘his girl’?”

I couldn’t look him in the eye. I just sat there on the couch, my fists clenched in my lap, wishing I could vanish between the cushions.

“He’s a criminal, Genevieve. He’s dangerous. He’s not just some troubled boy you can fix with your pretty smile and soft heart. That boy’s name is being floated around in a murder investigation, and you think you’ll be the exception?”

“He didn’t do it,” I whispered.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

He stared at me like I’d betrayed everything he stood for.

“I’m not going to sit here and watch you ruin your life over someone who may not even be around next year,” he said. “You’re going back to your mother’s. First thing in the morning.”

“No,” I said, standing up. “You can’t—”

“I can,” he snapped. “And I will.”

The room deflated around me. The silence after his words was heavier than any slap could’ve been.

So the next morning, I packed. Numb. Hollow. Like my body was moving without me in it.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him because he wasn’t allowed to get visitations. How cruel.

By noon, I was in my mom’s apartment again. The walls still smelled like lavender and bad decisions. The same chipping paint on the hallway door. Same ugly couch. Same squeaky fan blades.

And him.

Ramon.

Her stupid, lazy boyfriend who wore shirts two sizes too tight and always talked like he’d swallowed a beer bottle. He sat on the armrest, chewing chips with his mouth open, not even pretending to be surprised to see me.

I didn’t say hi.

Didn’t say anything.

I walked right past him like he was a ghost.

“Hey, G,” my mom said, opening her arms for a hug.

I let her hug me. But I didn’t hug her back.

Because this wasn’t home. This wasn’t anything.

This was a prison without bars.

And Leo? He was miles away, drowning in secrets, maybe facing charges, maybe losing sleep…

And all I wanted to do was ask if he was okay.

But I couldn’t.

Because my phone had been taken. My freedom revoked.

And my heart?

My heart was breaking for someone the world said wasn’t worth it.

But the world didn’t know him like I did.

The world didn’t know us.