She's an innocent girl who lived with her alcoholic abusive father. Her life was barley manageable, especially when she was separated from her biological family at such a young age.
When her father mysteriously dies from a car crash, she's taken to...
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AZALEA'S POV:
YOU KNOW when you cut yourself , maybe on the finger― probably while cooking or cutting something up. But anyway, you feel that little prick and you might wince. Right now, it feels like I'm being stabbed everywhere and anywhere, all over my body repeatedly. I'm not wincing though. I'm not wincing, crying, closing my eyes, breaking anything. I'm just neutral. This is weird. This is bad too― I'm supposed to be crying, at least a little bit. There's so many things I'm supposed to be doing but I'm not doing it.
Although I do know that I'm definitely not supposed to be going 50+ mph down a busy road on a purple motorcycle with fuzzy thoughts and bloodied knuckles. I do know that I am in no way not in the right shape or form to be driving, let alone to be alone. Everything seems wrong tonight. So I allow myself to be wrong, free and myself for once in a long time. Everything seems to be going so slow, so bad. Everything is falling out of place. My perfect life isn't so perfect anymore. It really, really hurt. I think I loved them. I loved them even whilst knowing the consequences. The thought of disappearing has crossed my mind more than it ever has before tonight. And for once, I think I just want to disappear. Never come back again. They disgust me. The thought of them solely makes me want to gag. Makes me regret everything.
What if I hadn't opened the door that night?
My dark brunette hair flies all over the place and I whiz through the roads of Milan. There's no set destination for where exactly I'm going. I just need to be away from them for a while.
However what I do know is that I won't be returning there. I wouldn't. It'd slowly kill me physically and mentally watching as they feign love towards me. It's so unhealthy and it hurts so much. So, indescribably, much. I don't think I've ever been this attached before.
My ears are ringing and my head is throbbing. My knuckles are a bright red, glass lodged in them. I'm shivering all over. I have a black, cropped tank top and some black sweats. It's the middle of winter and I'm not wearing a jacket or anything― it's almost inevitable to not catch a cold or a fever. Kind of the least of my worries right now.
Fuck, this was so irrational. My money is at home and so is everything else I own except my phone, which is lodged in my bra, and then a charger and a knife I found in a bag that was on the handle of the motorcycle. Also managed to slip my journal in. Damn, it's been a while since I've ridden a motorcycle.
Everywhere is pitch black, Milan only being illuminated by dull lamp posts scattered on the pavements.
I fear I'll crash into something― die with overwhelming hatred towards people I once loved.
Die with everything ruined, messy.
My breaths are labored, heavy. I feel like the handles are hot iron, slowly burning my hand away.
I feel like I'm fading, slipping away, but I have nothing to hold on to. My heart feels empty, my body feels light and weightless. If I were to jump off a massive building, would I die?
