The Angelic Misdemeanor (A Bloodrose Sequel ~ Book

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π™²πš‘πšŠπš™πšπšŽπš› 2 ~ πšƒπš‘πšŽ π™±πšžπšπšπšŽπš›πšπš•πš’ π™΄πš

Ivy's POV

"The fuck... are you talking about?" Questioned my father, bringing me back to the present. His face expressed the feelings of dejection and confusion.

"What?"

"What were you talking about? You said money corrupts people! What the fuck does that mean?" He said, his words tumbling over each other like the waves in the rough ocean.

"Oh...I'm just saying that you can get anyone to do anything with the right amount of money."

"What is that... supposed to mean, Ivy?" He said as he slurred his words, his voice began to tremble with pain.

"Whatever you want it to..."

I knew he was in pain but I had no remorse for him when he was in this state. Whatever I do or say it will always end with bruises and blisters painted on my body like a canvas.

By now the tape from the key was long gone. The scrapings and peelings descended like crumbs, onto the couch. I used my hands to dust it off.

Then I peered up at him. His once white shirt tucked languorously into his brown khaki pants that stopped right below his ankle. Multiple stains blotched the shirt -- permanent... like my scars. It was like an album -- an album of my life. Each was different but symbolically the same. It was now permanently stained. That's the life this shirt had to live now.

It had no control over how soiled and fragmented it had become but that didn't change the fact that it was damaged, scarred, and changed forever. The shirt may never be able to move on because it couldn't leave. There were invisible ropes that held it captive, it may never break loose and even if it could it would choose to stay. It couldn't explain why it had to stay because you wouldn't understand -- you wouldn't understand what it's like to be held by these ropes.

They're nothing compared to the ones used in movies and your everyday life. These grow and the longer you're tied to it, the longer the rope grows. It will never stop wrapping itself around you even to the point where the ability to breathe is long gone. The compression against the chest would be too much.

Even though these ropes may seem bad it's the only thing that's keeping the shirt going. The only thing that held it together. It's like a toxic relationship. Even though one partner is going through literal hell they still need that person. They rely on that person so much that they'll endure any amount of abuse to have just a hint of comfort. At that point, I no longer thought I was speaking of the shirt. It was lucky that it was inanimate. Had no feelings or emotions -- no heart to feel the pain. It was lucky that it wasn't me.

His chest pumped up and down but his breathing was hitched like there was something lodged deep in his throat. His voice sounded quaky and I could hear his breathing from where I sat. There was a fair distance between us. That small distance made me feel secure. I wanted to run while I still had the chance but who knows what he'll do to release his anger if not on me. I couldn't live with that. What would he do to release his anger?

He squinted his eyes at me, obviously aggravated but at this point, I no longer cared how hard he'd hit me. Because at the end of the day I always got what I deserved for what happened. I tried to blame it on my dad but deep down my conscience was eating me alive. My mind, heart, and soul knew that it was all my fault. They were all like traitors to me. The body to which I lived in my entire life -- my shell -- was against me, along with everything else within. All because I didn't know how to keep quiet. I'd have to suffer until the end of my days. That's what I deserve. I must endure, feel the pain because I'm the reason it even exists.

If only I had stayed quiet, this could have been avoided. I brought this all onto myself. But when I think about it; I'd be doomed either way. If I remained, with the secrets dwelled and hidden deep in the core of my brain, I'd just live in silence till I was blue in the face and dissolving in the flesh.

You see, I have voices in my head -- demons. There was once just my conscience until a disease blossomed in my brain giving birth to this thing -- this creature that had great dominance over my mind. There was war even. My conscience tried to protect me, like a brave warrior but my mind wasn't powerful enough to endure and now this demon has grown with me but way out of my control. It can never be reversed; and for my conscience, she was manipulated as well. She's gone and so was I. Though my nose insufflated the oxygen released from nature and my lungs transferred it into my bloodstream, I was gone.

You know the phrase, 'You're dead to me'? Well, I'm dead to me. That's kind of funny, huh? It's better I just laugh it off, anyways. My life is nothing but a joke -- my life is just messed up and sad and something that someone would cry about -- but only for a while, they'll eventually move on and forget me. But, that's fine. I wish I could do that. I envy that; the ability to move on and forget, forgive and forget. If only I could.

He walked up to me and asked, "What does money have to do with your mother's death?" He then picked up an empty beer bottle and pointed it to me, "Answer the goddamn question... before I knock the lights out of you."

"Why would I even tell you? You're gonna forget before you're even sober." I muttered nonchalantly masking a face of self-condemnation.

He couldn't keep his composure anymore. The pain and regret he had for living with me was already unbearable and then when he drinks it just amplifies the hatred he has toward me. Even though he doesn't know the truth, he already hates me. So I know that if I tell him what he thinks he wants to hear, he'll definitely kill me. I may not look like it but death scares me.

"Answer the question, you good-for-nothing-freeloader!" He spat, swinging his hand, to which yielded the glass bottle, behind his head, and puffed his chest in a failed attempt to threaten me.

"Hmm... That's funny. That's what they described you as."

Suddenly he sent the bottle flying in my direction -- aiming directly for my head. Fortunately for me, my reflexes kicked in just in time to duck. Everything went into slow motion. Those moments of my life were both daunting and terrifying at the same time. It was as if I was in a different time frame.

I squinted my eyes to subconsciously protect my retinas as I held onto my ears, by instinct. The blow had knocked the logical section of my brain right through my mouth, a gust of wind barely leaving it. The hot breath of air replaced a scream. A scream that would be of no use. In a house that was overlooked, similar to a shack was my house. Though it didn't resemble it in appearance, that was how someone looked upon the place of which I'd call my home. Trying to avoid my home as they crossed a busy street just to avoid being seen near such a destruction of a household.

I spied through my feathered lashes as I saw his silhouette standing tall before me. My hair hadn't even come into eyesight yet. Slow, was now the time as seconds went as fast as minutes and with the minutes going at the speed of hours.

That tends to happen every time something horrible is happening. Like the time I watched her -- hearing her screaming my name. Her voice, to this day, still rings echoes through the walls of my auditory canal bringing strain to my joy and a sudden dampness of the eyes. That was the first time I was trapped in a different time frame and it was the most brutal minutes of my life.

Everything became slow, as time used its twisted way to torment my stressful and problematic life. Everything was slowed except for my mind which ran miles around my head trying to register what was going on. It was as if someone tampered with the time.

Time was against me and how do I stop that. The world was so out to get me, it's like it was me against the world. You may say that I'm just being paranoid thinking something as outrageous as that but do you have a better explanation for why my life is like this?

She would come from every direction. I'd see her, my mother, in my dreams and even in the streets. I've seen her so often -- almost every day since the incident and it just gets more heart-stopping and heart-breaking every time. It's like when she died, she left a demon's ovum in my heart and eventually it hatched and the more I see her the weaker my heart gets making it susceptible toward consumption. There were these parasites and demons that had absolute leadership over my body. It was like my body wasn't even mine anymore. I couldn't even claim my brain. I no longer held ownership of my thoughts -- I was just a puppet.

I felt the shards of glass gravitate into my hair and all over the couch to where I sat. Slicing all the security I felt toward my father into millions of pieces. He was my mother and father, he was the wing that I'd hide under when I'm scared, but what do I do if he's the one hurting me. If he's the one with harmful and dangerous intentions against me. Yes, he'd hit me and punch me and kick me but he never threw a glass bottle toward my head, before. What does this mean now? I always thought that he'd kill me if I spill the truth but even though I didn't he still has those demonic thoughts lurking behind his mind.

His aim was surprisingly accurate for a drunk. If I hadn't moved, I couldn't have died, or if I'm lucky I'd get a concussion.

Most people might think...why is a dark, psychotic goth like me afraid of death. I'm afraid of the unknown. What comes after death? I've seen many conspiracy theories concerning the topic of the afterlife being equivalent to before birth, or the same as slumber. But that's all that they are, theories -- hypotheses. I believe in science and not even that can prove these theories to be truthful. I'm afraid of the unknown. What if, because I'm a troubled soul, I'd just live in a motionless body for eternity? Or what if I commit suicide and I go to hell. They can't even prove if hell is real or not. It's all just a blurred line between what's real and what's not. I'd rather not know what comes after death, all I know is that I don't wanna die. I'm terrified of it. What if it's more daunting than my life?

"I... don't wanna die," I murmured, tears threatening to fall over as they stung the corner of my eyes.

I used my numbed fingers to grip onto my sweatpants and squeezed the material in pain. I felt every last ounce of self-love slither and slip through the tiny gaps between my teeth as it blended with saliva, I inhaled a sharp breath in an attempt to prevent this liquid from seeping through my lips but it just came back and the cycle repeated as the speed intensified until I couldn't hold it back anymore. I let loose of the bottled-up emotions and down-poured my woe. I stared as all the suppressed grief fell.

"I-I don't wanna die." I continued, tears erupting from my eyes, like a volcano and plopping onto my pants like blood drops to the floor.

I began to bite and chew the inside of my cheeks until it drew blood. The taste of rusty metal but as a liquid.

"Honey, are you alright? Did they hurt you?" I heard a worried voice call. I felt a whip of reminiscence strike me on the back -- sending tormenting agony rushing through my veins. It was her -- her voice.

Everything froze, my lungs and heart diluted, the rotation of the earth paused. I could hear the chatter from the neighbors freeze in an instant as they peeked through the blinds to see what all the commotion was about.

But only in my head for everything carried on, the usual, as if there weren't children dying in every heartbeat as if disease didn't spread like wildfire to the poor villagers who drank contaminated water for survival, they acted as if women weren't being beaten and raped by dominated men or if there wasn't a mother home in mourn, for she has lost her firstborn to war.

The world carries on, laughing at their silly politicized jokes, batted around, and watching how people suffer muttering, 'how sad, I feel terrible for this person.' but they don't. How can they -- care if after seeing what suffering people undergo they carry on their day as if these things don't exist. They... I won't say romanticize but they normalize these things saying that this is just the way of the world. Bad things happen all the time. There's nothing we can do to fix these things.

This is why the world is the way it is. Because they don't understand how simple it is to help. To offer a dollar to charity, or to spread awareness. I could say this with my fist held high along with my head and say, 'I help!' Because I chip in any small amount I can, disregarding the judgment of their appearance stating that they're using the money for illegal reasons. I do it. Because I know what it's like to feel hopeless and even if you've never felt the feeling they deserve the help, they do.

I pray to whoever would listen to end all suffering. I'm sure we'd all like to live in harmony and love. Then why on this very damn day we can't. Why must this shit go on? If it didn't then I doubt I'd be in such a situation.

I barely raised my head but I admired her through the spaces in between stringed strands of ebony, which most will call my hair. The hair that fell over when I jerked forward, finally as it did. "I'll get us out of here, okay? Don't be afraid."

I wrinkled my nose and my lips began to tremble excessively. I raised my head some more so that I could see her. "Oh...god." I pouted as I stared at her, my hair still drawn over my face.

At that moment, I felt the hole in my heart begin to grow...consuming all the happiness I had left. "Mama? Mama... I'm so, so sorry. I never meant for this to happen! I-I didn't know!"

My father stepped back in disbelief. A single tear glided tenderly down his cheekbone and it was so light, that it clung to his face -- stopping beneath his chin. Though the tear was lightweight, it was filled with so much sorrow and despair that I could feel its energy radiating through the thickness of the surrounding atmosphere, from where I sat. It's like the butterfly effect. You'll look at a tiny butterfly and never imagine the damage it can cause.

He clung to his chest and I could only imagine his pain. His shirt ruffled around his clenched fist as he grasped onto his heart. I've never seen him this hurt before. I saw how the inner parts of his throat closed in, creating an obstacle in his usual breathing pattern. His eyes already crystalized were bland with disbelief. In his eyes, he saw me as the monster. It's always about perspective.

"You heartless, bitch." He mumbled as his nose flared in despair. "How dare... you? I cared for you and made sure you survived and this...is how you repay me?"

"Dad..."

"No, don't. I can't even stand the sound of your voice. You- you-"

He tried to get the words out but he couldn't find the words in his dictionary to describe how much hate he had for me. Every breathing second of the day that shed mockery to his life was already a torment that he dealt with by sipping the liquor, purifying his itching desire to end himself but there was no amount of intoxicants that could veil him of the misery he felt living with me.

His voice was cracking and shaking in the limitless agony that I just ignited with my mouth. He charged up to me.

His eyes slowly arced to a jet-black. I hated when he got like this. When a thick veil of darkness and anger surrounded his eyes, blinding him from seeing anything else but me.

I wanted to scramble out of the place but this was what I had to do. I didn't feel fear nor did I feel brave. He grabbed onto my hair and yanked me to the floor, my face expressing pain as it squeezed together but then went back to a calm and collective appearance. This was what I knew would come. It started with a slap in the face, as a child then developed to a full beating, in adolescence, current to this very beating that would soon come.

This was my life. One thing happens because of another, usually something small. Like how we never care where the wind blows unless it ignites a fire to which consumes any obstacle in its way. Like the comparison just stated, this was the period of my life to which I described as the butterfly effect.

οΏΌ

π™·πšŽπš’ πš‹πšŠπš‹πšŽπšœ!

𝙸 πš‘πš˜πš™πšŽ πš’πš˜πšžπš› πš‘πšŠπšŸπš’πš—πš 𝚊 πš‹πšŽπšŠπšžπšπš’πšπšžπš• 𝚍𝚊𝚒.

𝙸 πšπš˜πš—'𝚝 πš›πšŽπšπš›πšŽπš πš πš›πš’πšπš’πš—πš πšŠπš—πš’πšπš‘πš’πš—πš πšπš‘πšŽπš›πšŽ πš‹πšŽπšŒπšŠπšžπšœπšŽ πšŽπšŸπšŽπš— πšπš‘πš˜πšžπšπš‘ πš–πš’ πšŒπš‘πšŠπš›πšŠπšŒπšπšŽπš› πšœπšŠπš’πš πš’πš πš’πš'𝚜 πš™πš›πšŠπšŒπšπš’πšŒπšŠπš•πš•πš’ πš πš‘πšŠπš 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 πšπš‘πš’πš—πš”πš’πš—πš.

π™Έπš πš—πš˜πš πšπš‘πšŽπš— πšœπš–πš’πš•πšŽ. π™½πš˜πš πšπš˜πš› πš–πšŽ πš˜πš› πšŠπš—πš’πš˜πš—πšŽ πšŽπš•πšœπšŽ, πšœπš–πš’πš•πšŽ πšπš˜πš› 𝚒𝚘𝚞. 𝙸'πš– πšœπš˜πš›πš›πš’ πš’πš πšŠπšπšπšŽπš› πš›πšŽπšŠπšπš’πš—πš πšπš‘πš’πšœ πšŒπš‘πšŠπš™πšπšŽπš› 𝚒𝚘𝚞 πšπš˜πš—'𝚝 πšπšŽπšŽπš• 𝚝𝚘 πšœπš–πš’πš•πšŽ πš‹πšžπš πš“πšžπšœπš πšœπš–πš’πš•πšŽ. π™΄πšŸπšŽπš— πš’πš πš’πš'𝚜 πš˜πš—πš•πš’ πšπš˜πš› 𝚊 πš–πš˜πš–πšŽπš—πš.

π™ΌπšŠπš”πšŽ πšœπšžπš›πšŽ πšŠπš—πš πšœπš”πš’πš— πšπš‘πš˜πšœπšŽ πšπšŽπšŽπšπš‘!

πšƒπš‘πšŠπš—πš” 𝚒𝚘𝚞, πšπš˜πš› πš›πšŽπšŠπšπš’πš—πš. ✌︎

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