Vicious Minds: Part 3 (Children of Vice 6)

That was the first time since he’d come in that I’d seen any emotion flash on his face. Fear, concern, pain, regret, it flashed through his eyes as he too must have thought about it. Ethan may have gotten what he wanted, but he may have lost something else in return.

He stared at us for a long while before he spoke again. “I can’t break her. She will forgive me.”

“And if she doesn’t—”

“She will,” he snapped, glaring. “Calliope and I have been through more than either of you. She will forgive me for this. Whether it takes a year or ten years, I do not care. As you both know, I can be very patient. She is mine. She knows that.”

And with that, it was completely shattered—the image of the little boy who was my son. He was a lion, all grown up with a face covered in blood. There was no space for us beside him. We’d only get in his way. And if that happened, there may come a day when he “let” a bullet find us as well.

“Once this over, you will never see us ever again,” I told him. “And we will never interfere. Don’t even worry if we are buried or not. Just keep doing whatever you have to do…keep going as you are because you are more than I ever dreamed of.”

For better or for worse, Ethan was the monster I had made, and I would have to take pride in that.

“Thank you, Mother.”

17

“The shattering of a heart when

being broken is the loudest quiet ever.”

~Carroll Bryant

CALLIOPE

I remembered exactly what had happened when I woke up again, which was why the moment I saw the wedding photo of us hanging in the corner of the room, I reached over, grabbing whatever happened to be on my nightstand and threw it as hard as I could at the photo. Rising out of bed, the rage rose inside of me as well.

My body was fine, though I felt a bit nauseous. However, nothing else could eclipse my rage. Reaching for the la

mp, I held it like a baseball bat. I used it like one, too. Slamming it over and over against everything until it shattered before going to his closet and ripping out everything, smashing what I could smash. It wasn’t enough—nothing broke or ripped enough, not the vanity mirror, stupid fucking watches, or the overpriced fucking suits.

It was like a Band-Aid on a freshly severed leg.

It did shit.

And I needed something to happen.

I went to my closet and picked out the biggest guns.

It was stupid.

It was childish.

It would fix nothing.

But inside, I was screaming.

My mind was raging.

Everything seemed to go in and out. One minute I was in my gun closet, and the next, I was in the precious garage, opening fire on his stupid cars. I couldn’t hear the bullets; I couldn’t feel the gun go off in my hands. I screamed, but I couldn’t hear that, either, so I just kept firing.

My heart ached.

So, I wanted it to burn.

Because I wanted it to burn, I dumped out the storage canteens of fuel on the broken cars.

Fuck him.