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Prologue
I tried to save myself for years, but eventually, I just became a frayed flag in the wind. I didn't know my colors or patterns; I didn't know myself. I was just there surviving.
The problem with today's ideals is that we must do it alone because that improves gratification.
But what if you fail?
What if you don't fail or succeed but just coast?
What then?
I think this is how the villain must feel. The hero has the masses for support. The hero isn't alone in doing it all; they have sidekicks. The villain does it all by themselves; they don't trust or welcome friends because everyone is seen as a potential enemy.
I was trying to do it all, hide it all, and slowly, it was killing the good in me, the little bit of hope I had left. Slowly, all the lies and terrors I endured were making my heart into a black, villainous one. A heart where blame was easier to swallow than acceptance.
So, I blamed myself every single day. I repeated yesterday’s pattern for years, hoping that it would differ. Patterns don’t change unless you change them. So I did, or at least I tried to.
I had to break yesterday. Stop the cycle from repeating.
I've finally come to terms with the idea that you can say, 'screw you, society,' middle finger to the sky, and turn your back on what everyone's perfect mold is.
It's okay to ask for help. To confess our emotions, stop being a closed bottle and pour all that shit out.
Of course, I learned this the hard way. I bottled it all for years, and then my bottle was shaken. Violently.
I wasn’t shaken by the monster who hurt me. Instead, I was ripped open and forced to confront my demons by the person who saved me.
That's when it happened. I unraveled directly into the arms of a man I should have stayed away from. It's not because he was evil; the problem was he was the hero, and I still viewed myself as the villain. After all, the villain kills people, and I blamed myself for his death.
Chapter 1
Poppy
I don't understand why people come to libraries to study. I can't concentrate here for more than five seconds at a time. It's too silent, forcing my ears to pick up on everything that isn't quiet like the guy breathing heavily at the next table.
My brows inch up. Seriously, is he watching porn on his laptop in the library? What else could explain his labored breaths? Certainly not statistics. And if so, then I'm in the wrong statistics class.
I shudder and look ahead at a girl who is practically chewing her entire finger off. Her nail is all but destroyed, yet she gnaws away like a beaver chopping wood. Gross!
My shoulders slump in fruitless hope. I slam my textbook shut. The loud bang causes three more sets of eyes to glance up at me. I flash a pressed smirk, silently apologizing.
"Shh!" A whisper tickles my ears. I do the opposite and squeak out a scream, earning a look from the lady at the desk that seems to peel the flesh off my body.
"Tough crowd," I murmur. I glance over my shoulder to see my brother Peter hovering over me.
"How did—?" I begin, but I already know. Peter is the definition of a protective older brother, and he has tracking apps, plural, on my and Henry's phones.
He pulls out the chair next to me. "Studying not going well?" He eyes the closed book and my blank notepad.
I shrug. "I can't concentrate here."
"So, why'd you come?"
"The coffee shop had a clogged toilet, and it backed up, replacing the aroma of coffee with sewage," I reply.
He grimaces.
"My thoughts exactly," I giggle. "Studying is bad enough, but enduring that smell would be a new form of hell." I slump in my chair. "Why are you here?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
