Chapter 134: 34| Death-1

Death ┗━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┛ : Death (Dante's POV) I hadn't realized how I'd started calling Anastasia's apartment home or how it began to feel more like a home than my own apartment ever had. I knew Anastasia was expecting answers from me tonight, and I'd promised her honesty; I wouldn't go back on my word. But I thought I was past all this. Underestimating the impact my past had on me was a mistake. I always told myself that taking care of Isaiah Morales would solve all my problems, that the torture and suffering he put me through would be avenged when I killed him, and for a moment, when he went limp and lifeless before my eyes, it felt like everything would be okay again. But when I woke up the next morning, I found that not much had changed. Killing Isaiah wasn't the solution to my problems, but I never once regretted it, even though it failed to bring me the salvation I was desperately seeking. The nightmares didn't cease even after killing him, and it took me a long time to come to terms with my reality. Telling Anastasia everything felt like reliving it all. But I would relive that nightmare a hundred times, fuck, I would go through hell and back over and over again for her if she asked. A deep breath escaped me as I lifted my eyes from the ground and saw her stepping out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her softly. She made her way over to where I sat at the foot of her bed and wordlessly dropped down beside me. A second passed before she spoke, "Dante." I turned to face her. "You don't have to," she whispered, shaking her head softly. "If you don't want to talk about it, we won't." "I've spent enough of my life running from my past, Anastasia," I told her. "It's all done. I should be able to talk about it." "There's no time limit on healing from these things," she replied. "To each their own." "Not saying it out loud won't change what's already happened," I said, staring at the ground. She sighed quietly as she held my arm. We sat silently for a few minutes until I'd gathered enough of myself to tell the truth. "I was eleven years old," I began, still looking away from her. "It's been eighteen years. My memories are hazy after I spent my entire life trying to block them out." She hummed faintly in understanding. "I knew Isaiah Morales," I mumbled, "at least my parents did. I saw him here and there growing up, mostly at galleries. When my mother first met him, he was trying to make it as an artist. She liked one of his pieces and bought it off of him. "Eventually, he gained little recognition amongst New York's elite. People loved his work, he had a growing clientele. My parents had introduced him to their friends and helped him sell his work. They weren't close by any means. Just… well acquainted." I felt her thumb gently stroking my arm over the fabric of my shirt, and I continued. "His wife was sick. She had been for a few years, and her heart was failing. He didn't have enough money for the surgery. The people he knew best in this city who could have helped him financially were my parents, but when he came to ask for help, they refused. They didn't know him well enough, it was far too big of a risk. "A few months later, his wife passed away. Isaiah lost it. He turned to alcohol and drugs, he started losing his business, and he had nothing left. I never knew he had a son, or any children for that matter. I don't think my parents knew either. If they did, perhaps they would have helped him. I don't know…" I took a breath to steady myself and let out a heavy sigh. "One night, he showed up to our house. It was late, the staff had gone home, and it was me and my parents. When my father answered the door, Isaiah barged in. He wasn't in his right mind, he may have been drunk. He started arguing with my parents, blaming them for his wife's death, saying she would have been alive if they had just loaned him some money. "I was told to go to my room, and I couldn't watch the situation unravel. At some point, he turned completely manic. He pulled out a knife. All I remember…" Her grip on me tightened as I inhaled shakily. "I came running out when I heard my mother screaming. I was at the top of the stairs," I swallowed, "watching. I watched. I watched him stab my parents to death. They couldn't do anything to defend themselves, hell, I couldn't do anything for them, Anastasia." "You were just eleven years old, Dante," she whispered quietly, resting her lips against my shoulder, "it wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done." I scoffed lightly, "That almost makes it worse." A beat passed before I continued, "I don't think he planned on taking me that night. But when he saw me, he decided that killing my parents right before my eyes wasn't enough for him. He resented my parents not only enough to kill them but to kill me, too. "If I hadn't begged for my life that night, he would have driven that knife through my chest. Sometimes, I think it might have been better if he had. Perhaps death would have been better than what I went through in that basement. When he dragged me out with him, I didn't fight him. "It was my only chance at surviving, so I cooperated. I promised him I would always do as he said, but when we got down there, he just threw me inside of that closet and locked me up." Swallowing past the heavy lump in my throat, I let my head fall forward. "He came down there every day to hurt me, and that was all he ever did. First, it was just the belt. He liked to whip me… on my back. Sometimes, the torture only lasted a few minutes. Sometimes, hours. And sometimes, the entire night. No matter how long, he always left me with welts; he always left me bleeding on the ground. That wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was when he came back to pour alcohol over the wounds." I heard the sharp inhale of her breath. "The belt turned into a knife one day, and the belt welts became knife wounds. He liked to cut me open. He liked making me bleed." "Dante-" "Then, one day, he told me I wouldn't be the only one anymore. At first, all he told me was a nickname for the girl he'd bring the next day. Little Dove. When I asked, he told me your name. Anastasia Cobalt Vitalio." I turned to face her. Realization washed over her face. "It was… just supposed to be me? Then why did he- why take Francesca? Why did he kill her?" Her breaths grew slightly shallow, and her eyes glistened with tears again. "She wasn't supposed to be there with you," I said hesitantly, "in the garden. He thought he'd grab you when Francesca wasn't looking or when she was with the other kids, but that night, it was just you two, wasn't it?" Her silence gave me my answer. "I could hear you out there," I mumbled, "screaming for her when he would hurt her. I heard you crying when she…" "Why?" she asked weakly. "Why me?" "He liked you." I didn't have a better answer for her. "If what he told me was true, it was simply because he liked you. When he lost his wife, he stopped painting. One night, he saw you with Marshall at an art gallery for an event. You made him paint again. It was like you were-"