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I push the painting off my bed and lay down. Snatching my phone out of my pocket, I send out a text.
Easton: I don’t want this shit. Come get it.
Jasmine: No. I painted it for you, so it’s yours now.
Easton: I don’t want it. It’s ugly anyways. Looks nothing like me.
I was lying, it’s amazing, and if not for the abstract take on it, it would look like a photo of me.
Easton: I’m just going to set it on fire.
Jasmine: Don’t you dare! I worked on that for months!
Easton: Come stop me.
I shift off the bed, throwing my shoes back on. I know she’s coming for it. She can’t fucking have it. It is mine.
I race out into the rain; I can’t have her in my space. Not a single drop of warm vanilla is allowed to exist in my room. Meeting her halfway, I see her. Her doe eyes are puffy. Her black hair sticking to her face. Her white shirt see-through from the unforgiving rain that pounds down on us. I can see her nipples as they poke through, begging me to love them. To take them back.
“Get out of my way.” She shoves me, both hands planted on my strong chest. I am unyielding, refusing to move even an inch from her. “If you don’t want it, then I’ll take it back. You can’t just burn it,” she says, trying to go around me.
I snatch her arm, lowering my face to hers, our breaths mingling. I have the urge to close the distance between us, to make our breaths as one. “You can’t have my painting. It’s fucking mine,” I growl.
“What is wrong with you?” She shakes out of my grip, backing up.
My hands clench. I still want to fucking touch her. I still want to press my lips to hers. I still fucking love her. And I can feel the pull between us as the rain beats down on us. “You! Like always you’re what’s wrong with me.”
She points to herself, mouth falling open. “Me? What have I done? Nothing. I’ve done nothing! You,” she shoves my chest, “are the one who’s being hurtful. Flirting with girls. Kissing them in front of me.” She shoves me again. “Did I mean nothing to you? How could you hurt me like that?” She is screaming now, her beautiful face red.
A humorless laugh falls from my lips. “Me? Are you fucking shitting me right now? Me, hurt you? That’s fucking great coming from you.” I turn around.
“I loved you, you know,” she says, a slight tremor to her voice. I stop, looking back at her. Her lips are quaking, arms crossed over her chest as she stares at me. “I loved you so much, Easton. And I know you loved me too.”
I stalk back over to her, leaving a whisper of space between our bodies. My fingers grasp a wet strand of hair, rubbing it. “Yeah?” I ask, tilting my head to study her.
She nods her hand, reaching for me. Her delicate hands touch my arm. I bat it away. My face turns to stone. “Well, not anymore. Fuck you, Snitch.” I use her lock of hair as a whip as I lash it back against her face. It smacks against her cheek, her mouth slightly parted in a gasp. With that, I turn around. My mind screams that I’m an idiot. But am I? It took her how fucking long to say it back? No, fuck that. I am done. I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.
Columbia University will be my fresh start.
CHAPTER 20
TWO MONTHS LATER
JASMINE
My brain recognizes someone is speaking to me, sending signals for me to look up. “Jasmine, I asked how you’re feeling today.”
The bandages on my wrist distract me. The color so blaring against the scratchy gray material of my pants. I pick at it, hoping it’ll fade away. The scar will be ugly, swollen and red with black stitch marks.
“Jasmine.” I look up to the owner of the voice, seeing through the blurry figure as I think about that night. The way the air was still, no sounds, no feelings. My parents were ignoring me again, fighting. The rape on an endless loop as if I was living in hell. My first heartbreak lashing, splitting me open, leaving me to bleed dry. The pressure of the life I was forced to live, family I was born into, weighing me down like cinderblocks anchored to my feet in an ocean. I was drowning, sinking.
It’s almost calming when you make the decision to take your own life. There is no thought process, there is just then and now. Numb, stiff movements. Staring at the ceiling as you bleed out, growing calm and cold. Numb. Peaceful. Living is hard, but death? Death is easy.
A sigh brings me out of my thoughts. “Maybe next time.”
Yeah, maybe next time I’ll succeed.
SIX MONTHS LATER
