But here, as I lay naked and vulnerable with far too many wounds and far too little strength to rebuild myself, I let loose.

I lost it.

It wasn’t sweet, obedient Tasmin who shot to her feet and snarled at the finery. It wasn’t timid, broken Pimlico whose claws latched onto the decorative cream silk from the ceiling and yanked.

It wasn’t me (whoever that was) as I hurled off the bed and threw cushions and pushed over chairs and smashed sea life figurines.

I let two years’ worth of tears spew forth.

I hiccupped and howled and gagged as my tongue pounded in agony.

I lost myself.

And I no longer cared if I ever found my way back.

WHAT THE FUCK am I doing?

The question had run a track inside my mind for the past two days.

I should just pull up to shore, drop her off with a lump of cash, some clothes (which she would probably refuse to wear), and say good fucking riddance.

I didn’t have time for this. I didn’t have the luxury of going down a path that had taken me so long to run away from.

I had my own issues to deal with let alone shoulder hers.

Did you expect her to snap out of it the moment she was yours?

If I was honest, yes that was exactly what I bloody expected. I envisioned myself as the saviour and her smiling in gratitude and finally opening that bruised little mouth to say ‘Thank you, Elder, for saving my life. What would you like to know about me? I’m an open book for you, read my pages, pry away.’

I dragged my hands through my hair, digging my elbows into the desk.

Nothing was going according to plan. And seeing her struggle only made me realise how much I fucking struggled. How much I shut down and pretended I had everything I wanted—that my business kept me whole, that I wanted for nothing more than wealth, my boat, and the sea.

It was all a bloody lie.

I smothered myself with rules and trickery to prevent the addiction inside me from taking claim. She’d made me snap and admit some of my darkest truths at dinner.

That wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

I was supposed to crack her, not the other way around.

Fucking woman.

Even in her despair, she had the bravery to show me just how much I confused her.

Lying in bed after throwing her back in her room that night, sleep had refused to come. I recalled every word she’d written to No One, doing my best to put myself in her shoes and figure out how I would’ve coped.

The thought of someone physically and mentally abusing me was too abhorrent; I couldn’t fully comprehend what it would be like to live with such a monster. I’d done my fair share of hardship, but it had been my own doing, not from some corrupt bastard who thought he could own another.

Old memories sprung up, threatening to drag me under.

Digging my fingers into my skull, I held on.

Don’t fucking—

Too late.

I couldn’t stop the memory from stealing me, hurtling me back to a time I couldn’t run from—eighteen years ago where it all ended and begun.

My mother cried.

She’d been crying every night for four months. And because her tears were my fault, my heart drowned with every salty droplet. The shame wasn’t new. Guilt wasn’t, either. But I hadn’t meant to do what I did. If I could rewind time and fix the catastrophe I caused, I would.

But I accepted my punishment: her disappointment in me, our removal from our home…I bowed beneath the penance because she needed me to suffer. She needed to know I felt the weight of my actions and accepted that I’d been the reason for everything.

And I did.

Crap, how I did.

“Okaasan…please.” Glancing around the dirty alley we’d stumbled upon three nights ago, I ensured we were alone before dropping to my haunches beside her. “I’ll make it right. I promise.”

She tore her body away as I placed my palm on her shoulder. Her rebuttal of my affection cut me but not as much as it had at the beginning.

Our first night on the streets had been the worst in my entire thirteen years. I missed my room, my cello, my comfortable, if not rich life. But it was all gone now. My brother was gone. My father. Our house.

The only thing I’d been able to save besides myself was my mother, who cursed the very ground I walked upon.

“How can you make it right? We have nothing! No one will take us in. We’re alone.” Her sobs crushed me deeper into the dirty concrete where I’d laid a few cabbage-stained cardboard boxes from the dumpster behind us.

“I’ll get a job. Someone will hire me. We’ll have a home again.” I swiped at a piece of torn newspaper as it blew down the wind tunnel that was our accommodation for the night.

New York was not a kind innkeeper to those who found sanctuary on her streets—especially in fall. The leaves had switched from green to rust, and it was only a matter of time before the frigid mornings became frost and snow.

I have to fix this before then.

My mother cried harder into the crook of her elbow. Her black hair glistened in the faint lights of the cheery apartments above us. Craning my neck, I looked up the sides of the buildings we sat between, watching shadows of people cooking dinner and laughing with loved ones.

My stomach growled, tearing through the silence with empty ferocity. We hadn’t found decent food since yesterday morning.

What I’d done…it was unforgivable.

Overwhelming hatred for myself swirled with humiliation, thicker and thicker as my mother sobbed beside me. Her pretty blouse and jeans were now grubby and tattered. Her closet full of patterned kimonos and my father’s freshly ironed suits turned to ash and rubble.