TW: Mentions of assault. HAYDEN “I was in hell," I rasp, and it's not an excuse. It's just the ugly truth. "And I needed to drag someone down with me." But that's not the whole story. Not even close. The real hell started long before that night in the art room, before the bet, before I ever laid eyes on Eden Clarke and decided that she was the perfect target for my fucked-up rage. It started when I was eight. I don't tell her that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because saying it out loud would make it feel real again, and I've spent years convincing myself it wasn't. But the memories flood in anyway, unbidden. [FLASHBACK] The house is quiet tonight since Dad’s not yelling at Mum. She's in her room with one of her migraines, the kind that leaves her curled up in the dark for days. Dad's at some gala, schmoozing with people who matter more than his family. Juliet's asleep in her room down the hall, her nightlight glowing under the door. I'm supposed to be in bed too, b
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