The Muse

I can hear Papa snapping.

He's so mad.

And Mama—she's trying to calm him down, but it's not working. I can hear the strain in her voice, the way she's choosing her words carefully like she's walking on shattered glass.

My room is close to the stairs, so no matter how quiet they try to be, I hear everything.

I pull my knees closer to my chest, curling up tighter, pressing my face into the soft fur of my teddy bear. It's stupid, I know—holding onto something so childish at a time like this. But the weight of it in my arms is the only thing keeping me from shattering.

I feel terrible.

It's not my fault. I know that. But knowing doesn't make it feel any less like it is. I know that their anger has nothing to do with me. And yet—

The guilt sits heavy on my chest.

Like somehow, just by existing, I've caused this. If I never crossed paths with Massimo. If I never provoked him. If I never... wrote that letter.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I hate this feeling.

This crushing belief that I am the problem even when I know I'm not. That somehow, I always find myself tangled in messes I didn't make.

The voices downstairs get louder.

"...out of control, Judas! You do not get to start fights like this—"

"He deserved it."

"Do you hear yourself?" Papa's voice is sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. "You think you can just do whatever you want because you're my son? You think there won't be consequences?"

A pause.

"You have no idea what he said."

I swallow.

A part of me wants to know. The other part...

I don't think I can handle it.

Because if it was about me—if Massimo said something, if that's what caused this—then everything I've been telling myself, everything I've been trying to push away, will come rushing back with the force of a hurricane.

A reminder that I will never truly be safe from him.

That no matter where I go, he will always find a way to haunt me.

❁

I wake up exhausted. Like I haven't slept at all. Like my bones are tired of carrying me.

The weight in my chest is still there. But I push it down, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and force myself to move. Because I don't have a choice.

Skipping college isn't an option.

If I don't go, I'll fall behind. If I fall behind, I'll fail the semester. And if I fail—then what?

Then I'll be stuck here.

In this house.

In this life.

And I don't think I can handle that.

So I drag myself downstairs, my limbs feeling like lead, and take my seat at the dining table.

Breakfast is a quiet affair.

Judas isn't here, which isn't surprising. To be honest, I feel bad for him. He's always on the other end of the sword. Papa is reading the newspaper, pretending last night never happened, and Mama—Mama is watching me.

Like she knows I barely slept. Like she knows I spent the night trapped in my own head, overthinking everything.

I focus on my plate, pushing the food around with my fork, but it doesn't escape me when she pours a glass of fresh juice and places it in front of me.

I blink at it.

I hate juice.

Always have.

But Mama looks at me expectantly, and the last thing I want is to disappoint her. So I lift the glass and take a sip, wincing at the sweetness.

She smiles. And somehow, that makes it worth it.

That's when it hits me—

A realization so deep, so sudden, that I don't even notice Anya entering the kitchen.

I don't even hear her footsteps.

Not until she's right beside me, yawning, rubbing at her red-rimmed eyes.

And—

Is that alcohol I'm smelling?

I stare at her.

She's still in her pyjamas. With pink bows. Hair tangled mess and last night's mascara smudged beneath her eyes. She looks like she just crawled out of some kind of disaster.

She reaches for a bottle of water, unscrews the cap, and drinks straight from it. Then, finally, she glances at me.

"What?" she rasps.

I shake my head. "Rough night?"

She lets out a humourless laugh, collapsing into the chair across from me. "You could say that."

I don't ask.

I grab my bag and push the chair back. "I'm leaving."

Papa then lifts his head. "Wait," he says, setting the newspaper down. "I'll drop you off."

I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, Anya cuts in.

"Don't worry, Papa. We'll be going together."

I snap my head toward her. "What? No, I'm not going with you."

"You really wanna fight me on this right now?" Anya was already getting up and walking to the stairs.

Yes. Yes, I do.

I narrow my eyes at her retreating back before following her. "I'm good."

Anya pauses mid-step, turning slightly. "You sure?"

I scoff following her into her room. It's rare I come into her room because it's... too much. Not my style.

Expensive perfume bottles clutter her dresser. Half-burnt candles sit beside her bedtable. It's unorganised and cluttered in a way I wonder if she ever cleans her room.

I don't even want to look at the couch cause there's nothing worth looking at except the dirty scattered clothes. The scent of vanilla and something stronger, maybe alcohol, lingers in the air.

It's effortlessly messy—just like her.

She snorts pulling a top from the heap of clothes. "And change your clothes. They're boring."

"I like them."

She sighs, dramatic as ever. "At least wear something with colour. Red looks good on you."

I blink. "What?"

"What?" She shrugs, not even looking at me. "Anna told me."

My stomach clenches. My fingers curl around the strap of my bag.

Anna told her?

My face pales. "Told what?"

Anya is holding two tops—one a flimsy leather crop top, the other a white off-shoulder lingerie top. But that's not what shocks me.

She tosses them onto the couch and crosses her arms. "You know what."

I swallow hard.

Do I?

Anya stares at me like I've just broken her Dior heels. "Why do I always have to hear about this shit from other people?"

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag. "It wasn't a big deal."

Her laugh is mocking. "Not a big deal? Are you serious right now?" She steps closer. "That son of a bitch embarrassed you in front of the entire campus and you just—what? Decided to act if it didn't happen?"

I don't say anything. Because what's the point?

"You let people walk all over you." Anya shakes her head, frustration bleeding into disappointment. "And you just take it. Like that's all you're worth."

Something inside me twists painfully. I don't deserve it. Do I?

I take a slow breath, forcing my voice to stay even. "I just didn't want to make it worse."

"You didn't want to make it worse," she repeats. She's judging me, isn't she? "Right. So instead, you let everyone talk. You let them fucking—" She lets out a sharp exhale like she's trying to keep herself from saying something hurtful.

She's mad. I get it. But what she doesn't understand is—

I don't have the luxury of fighting back.

She does.

"I'm handling it," I say, but it sounds weak even to me.

Anya scoffs. "Yeah? And how's that working out for you?"

I press my lips together.

Exactly.

She rubs her face. "And Anna?"

I blink. "What about her?"

Anya lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, come on, Krystina. You really think she told me out of concern?"

"She's my friend."

Anya's expression hardens. "No. She's not."

I frowned. "Not everyone is like you, Anya."

"No," she agrees. "Not everyone is like me. If they were, you wouldn't be sitting here defending people who don't give a shit about you."

I flinch. But she's not done.

"She didn't tell me because she cares. She told me because she knew I'd tell you."

I stare at the floor. "Why do you even care?"

Anya exhales. "Because you're my sister."

And somehow, it's making my chest hurt even more. 

******