The fight had been simmering for weeks, perhaps even years, but it finally erupted the night I turned eighteen. It was supposed to be a celebration, a milestone that marked my freedom, my entry into adulthood. But instead, the house felt more like a battlefield, every word exchanged between Daemon and me laced with years of unresolved tension.
It started small, with a comment he made about my behavior, something about me wasting my potential, living too recklessly. It wasn't anything new—Daemon had always been critical, always disapproving of the way I lived my life, as though I was a reflection of everything he despised. But this time, I didn't have the patience for it.
"I don't need your lectures," I snapped, standing in the kitchen with my arms crossed, glaring at him from across the room.
Daemon's expression remained calm, but there was something sharper in his eyes, a coldness that sent a shiver down my spine. "You need someone to tell you the truth. You've been acting like a spoiled brat for years, Nina. When are you going to grow up?"
"Grow up?" I repeated, my voice rising in disbelief. "You don't get to tell me how to live my life, Daemon! You've never cared before, so don't pretend you do now."
His jaw tightened, and I could see the anger simmering beneath the surface, the control he prided himself on starting to slip. "I've always cared," he said through gritted teeth. "You're just too blind to see it."
I scoffed, shaking my head. "You don't care about me. You never have. All you care about is your perfect image, your control over everything. Well, guess what? I'm not part of that. I'm not someone you can control."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. I could feel the weight of his stare, the tension in the air crackling like electricity. And then, in a voice colder than I'd ever heard before, Daemon said, "Maybe that's the problem. You've never been anything but a problem."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of my lungs. My hands trembled as I grabbed my coat, my vision blurred by the sudden sting of unshed tears.
"I hate you," I whispered, the words barely audible but filled with all the hurt, all the frustration that had been building for years.
I didn't wait for his response. I couldn't. I stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind me, my heart racing with a mixture of anger and pain. The cold night air hit me like a wall, but I didn't care. I needed to get away, to breathe, to escape the suffocating presence of Daemon and the complicated mess of emotions that always seemed to follow him.
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The night air was biting, the wind cutting through my thin clothes as I stepped onto the street. I hadn't grabbed a coat in my rush to leave, and now the cold gnawed at my skin, but I didn't care. I needed to get away—away from Daemon, from his suffocating presence, from the judgment that weighed me down.
I walked with no real direction, my footsteps echoing in the empty streets. The anger that had fueled me moments ago began to fade, replaced by a hollow ache in my chest. Daemon's words still echoed in my head, each one sharp and cutting. His calm indifference hurt more than if he had just screamed at me.
After what felt like hours, I found myself at a small convenience store. I hadn't planned on stopping, but as I passed by the brightly lit windows, something inside me broke. I needed something—anything—to dull the ache, to silence the thoughts that wouldn't stop replaying in my head.
I walked inside, the warmth of the store a welcome contrast to the bitter cold outside. My eyes scanned the shelves before landing on the small selection of liquor behind the counter. Without thinking, I approached the cashier, my voice barely above a whisper.
"One bottle of whiskey," I said, pointing to the cheapest one I could find.
The cashier gave me a skeptical look but didn't say anything as he grabbed the bottle and set it on the counter. I fumbled through my handbag, pulling out the only cash I had on me. It wasn't much—just enough to cover the whiskey. I handed it over without a second thought, my hands shaking slightly as I clutched the bottle.
Back outside, the cold hit me again, but this time it felt less sharp. The bottle of whiskey was heavy in my hand, and I twisted off the cap, taking a long swig. The burn of the alcohol was harsh, but it did its job, numbing the edges of my thoughts, making everything feel just a little less real.
I continued walking, my steps uneven, my head starting to spin from the alcohol and the cold. Eventually, I found myself at a small park. The benches were empty, the trees bare against the dark sky. I sat down heavily on one of the benches, pulling my knees up to my chest as I took another swig of whiskey.
The world around me was quiet, but inside, my thoughts were loud. I replayed the argument with Daemon, the way he had watched me leave without a single word to stop me. I wanted to hate him, wanted to believe I didn't need him, but deep down, I knew that wasn't true. Deep down, I had wanted him to follow me, to say something, anything, that would make me feel like I mattered.
But he hadn't.
I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering as the cold seeped into my bones. The whiskey was supposed to help, but it wasn't enough. The ache in my chest was still there, and no amount of alcohol could make it go away.
I stared down at the bottle in my hand, the liquid sloshing inside. It felt like the only thing I had left, the only thing that made the night feel a little less unbearable. I took another long drink, the warmth spreading through my veins, dulling the sharp edges of my thoughts.
But the cold was relentless, and as I sat there, shivering on the park bench, I realized I had nowhere to go. No place to run. The weight of Daemon's words still hung heavy over me, and no matter how far I walked, I couldn't escape them.