PREFACE
Let me take your pain
Erase thunder from the sky
Wash away those tears
Be there when you cry
Slay your every demon
Championing the night
Take my hand in battle
Together we will fight
_Hydrus
More from Hydrus at
www.hydruspoetry.com
PLAYLIST
Better than Drugs - Skillet
Heaven Sent - Hinder
If You Met Me First - Eric Ethridge
Immortals - Fall Out Boy
Echo - Jason Walker
Lonely - Nathan Wagner
Death is in Love with Us - HIM
Proud of You - Georgiou Music
That’s Her - Georgiou Music
Bedroom Ceiling - Citizen Soldier
The Ones Left Behind - Martin Rapide
Find the full playlist HERE
DEDICATION
To those who wanted to give up, but didn’t.
To those left behind who stay strong.
And to those who have gone, we miss you.
PROLOGUE
ZARIA
Sixteen Years Old
It isn’t something anybody can understand.
The pain is hidden down inside me, burrowed deep in my bones.
It’s as if I’ve been tattooed with this invisible agony that will haunt me for the rest of my days. The itch to do something about it lingers in my mind. Most times, I shove it into the box with all the vicious words—fake, liar, spoiled, slut, whore—my followers spew at me, and I lock it up tight. In that hidden box, I’ve included my broken heart as well, because I lost it a long time ago.
It may sound silly, but I recall the moment I gave it away. He was someone my parents would never have agreed to let me date, let alone marry. I have all of that set out for me, it’s been that way since I was thirteen. I’ve seen the contract, my father signed it and told me one day, I’ll be given to a family, and it will strengthen our foothold in America. I don’t understand it, but I have to obey because it’s my duty as a daughter to the Abadi name.
I break my focus from the mirror on my vanity and glance at the phone screen again, wondering if I should do some research on the family my father mentioned that day. But the moment I unlock my device, I realize it was a mistake to do so. The apps that lead to my social media always draw me in, but as much as I smile looking at my friends’ photos, I have to see the comments on mine. Notifications that remind me of why I’ve decided to do something about the state of my life.
Useless. Ugly. Stupid.
I shake my head to clear my mind of the negative thoughts that instantly attack me. The house is empty as I pad from my bedroom to the staircase heading down to the entrance hall. I’m alone with the morbid and unrelenting thoughts as they swirl through my mind. And I willingly go into the darkness. It’s where I’m comfortable. Even though my thoughts hurt me both physically and mentally, I can’t stop them from consuming me. No amount of medication will ease it, no amount of talking can ever stop the voices.
Nothing you do is right.
You’re a burden on them.
They don’t really love you.
Even when my parents wanted to sit down and talk to me, I couldn’t explain it. There were no words to explain just how broken I felt. There was no way to explain the constant negative thoughts that plagued me. No encouragement or positivity, just a barrage of destructive words.
They were convinced I was just being a normal teenager.
I had to be perfect in the public eye since my father is one of the most prominent senators in California, which means he’s constantly in the news, his face on every post from the East Coast to the West. My mother runs her own import and export company. Seen as a confident woman in the business world, she’s obsessed with keeping up appearances. Convinced that portraying the picture-perfect family would only elevate her popularity.
In the bright lights of the media, I’m the princess of the Abadi family. I’m already well-known at sixteen, which means I’m followed around, hounded by paparazzi, and have been on the front of tabloids across the country. But even when I make the news, it’s always for something good.
They’ve labeled me the Abadi princess.
The up-and-coming role model for girls my age.
But my parents don’t believe the hype, because they see what I want them to. As does the public. I allow them to glimpse the perfectly-polished persona that I’ve been given and crafted accordingly. My reputation has been built to perfection. It cements my place in society once my parents marry me off to some rich asshole who will keep me around as merely eye candy.
I lift my phone, tapping the camera to selfie mode. Once it’s focused on my pretty smile, I tap the screen a few more times, offering the world the face they want to see. After taking a few photos, I select the perfectly posed one and open Instagram.
Once I’ve edited the fuck out the image, making sure that it shows exactly what I want it to, I smile and post with a caption I know will lure the followers, the likes, and the comments. Most times, they’re positive, but then there are times I find myself in tears from the bullies who think being behind their screens safeguard them. It makes them more confident in their slander, becoming nastier, ruder, than they would be in person.