So great to learn that your dead father was a manwhore.
What a great day.
I saw the color drain from Stella’s face. “Oh, my goodness. One of the wicked stepmothers is your mother?” she asked.
“That’s the rumor.”
“None of them reacted at all to the news,” she remarked.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
“Do you have to be sarcastic about everything?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of my thing.”
“That’s a tacky thing.”
“I’m a tacky fucker.”
She reached out and placed a hand against my forearm. “Damian… I’m-I’m so sorry. I can’t believe that Kevin is making this out to be some sort of game when it’s your life.”
Her touch sent a sensation through my system. I stared down at her hand against my arm. “What are you doing?”
Her eyes narrowed in confusion. Her brown eyes. Even though she’d annoyed me, Stella’s eyes were remarkable to take in. They expressed everything she was feeling without any words.
“I’m comforting you,” she explained. “Has no one ever done that?”
“Of course, they have,” I shot back, yanking my arm back to my side. “I just don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity. It’s comfort,” she explained. “It makes me sad that you can’t tell the difference.”
“Don’t waste your sadness on me.”
“When in life did you become so cold?” she asked.
That question hit hard against my chest and made my head begin to spin.
Before I could reply, I noticed my driver walking in my direction. “Mr. Blackstone. I’ve arrived.”
I locked eyes with Stella and saw her hurt sitting behind her stare. A level of discomfort hit me as I realized I didn’t know if the hurt was for herself or me. I know she said she didn’t pity me, but I could see it. I knew very little about that woman, but I knew enough to know that she felt bad for me.
She was one of those people who felt terrible for all individuals. Even the villains in the stories—maybe even more for the villains because she knew that villains weren’t born that way. They were raised from a life filled with disappointments and letdowns.
4
Damian
Seven Years Old
* * *
My bedroom door had a sign that said, “Do not enter” with a skull head sketched across it. Mrs. Gable helped me draw it, because she thought I was talented. She didn’t know what kind of art I’d do some day, but she believed I’d be good at whatever it was. That was why she got me art supplies and a disposable camera to try different kinds of art.
Mr. Gable hung my sign on the bedroom door, and he said I deserved to have my own private space where I could escape.
I never had my own room before, so it kind of made me happy.
They’d turned my bedroom into the galaxy because I was obsessed with space. My bed was a rocket ship, and Mrs. Gable got a rotating light gadget that would project the stars across my room at night. I was afraid of the dark, so that kept me feeling safe.
They even got star-shaped night-lights because the Gables cared a lot about making me feel comfortable. I’d been with the Gables for months now, the longest I’d ever been with any family. We even celebrated holidays together, and they were planning a big birthday party for me coming up. It was nice being with them after bouncing around a few times from home to home.
Temporary homes.
This one felt a little different, though. Maybe the Gables would want me to kind of stay forever. Maybe I could be a Gable, too.
I’d even get a brother. Jordan was a year older than me, but we were best of friends. We talked about all kinds of things together like video games and anime. He was my best friend in the whole world, which was cool because I’d never had a best friend before. I never stayed in one place long enough for someone to want to be my best friend.
Next week was my birthday, and I’d be turning eight. I was excited because the Gables promised me a big party with all things space, from the decorations to the cake, to the bounce house in the backyard.
Everything was going good until Mr. Gable cheated on Mrs. Gable.
My perfect family was beginning to fall apart right before my eyes. Mr. Gable moved out, and Mrs. Gable cried every single day after that. She even missed my birthday even though I was sitting inside the same house as her.
Four weeks passed. Mrs. Gable hardly got out of bed anymore. Jordan didn’t know what to do, either, so we stayed out of her way and let her be sad. Sometimes, I’d go out to the backyard and pick her flowers to try to make her feel better. It didn’t work. Maybe I was picking the wrong flowers.
Three more weeks passed. Mrs. Gable wasn’t getting better.