Hate.
It coursed through my veins like poison, and he was the source of it all —the man standing before me, whispering twisted words meant to manipulate and torment. I hated him with a ferocity I had never known before; he was the architect of my suffering, the puppet master pulling the strings of my despair.
Every pain, every sleepless night, every tear shed was a testament to his wickedness.
But there was one thing that he was right about.
Killing myself was not the solution. The thought of ending my life was a coward's way out. It was not the solution to my problems. Ethan, my younger brother, was still alive, and he needed me desperately.
