So when he refused to help me and called me names, I got angry. I got crazy angry. So much so that I snuck into his bedroom and destroyed it like he destroyed my heart.
But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is that he’s right. Iamthreatening his armoire again; apparently it was from Italy, something that his grandmother had given him and his brother a few years back. I didn’t know that when I broke it though; they told me later, at the police station.
I am also threatening his nightstand, his desk, his fucking computer, his bed, the mirror in his bathroom, his stupid windows, the lamps and everything else that I broke that night.
Sometimes I still can’t believe that I did all that. That I was angry enough, heartbroken enough,crazyenough to actually commit a crime.
And that’s the scary part, isn’t it?
That he can make me do that. That this guy can make me hate him so much that I destroyed my life for him.
I ruined it. I wrecked it.
My life. My parents’ life.
I vandalized their employer’s son’s room. It’s a miracle that they didn’t get fired. A miracle that they still get to work there.
And that’s exactly why I can’t be in his presence.
Reign Davidson is my kryptonite.
He’s my catnip.
My personal poison. My insanity drug.
He’s my anti-soulmate who makes me sick with hate.
“I wantyou,” I repeat on a low voice, “to get away from me or I’m going to end you.”
Amused, he drawls, “You’ve always been a little too drama, haven’t you?”
I clench my teeth at his reminder. “I swear to fucking God, I’ll do it. I swear it. I promise it.”
“And a promise is a fucking oath, isn’t it?”
If I could cover my ears, I would do it.
If I could reach into my brain and take out the piece of it that has Reign Davidson written all over it, I’d do that.
As it is, I don’t think it’s going to help, covering my ears. And I don’t have a fucking knife to stab myself with and perform a lobotomy.
So I can’t stop the memories flashing through my mind. The memories of when I said the same thing to him, the very first night we’d met.
I do it though.
I somehow shut it down and growl, “You’re dead. I —”
“Take my advice,” he speaks over me, all amusement vanished, “return the dress and forget about him.”
And then he steps back.
Shoving his hands down into his pockets again, he says, “It was nice seeing you, Echo. I hope we don’t have to do it again.” Then, “And it’s been two years, two months and twelve days.”
With that, he leaves.
And I realize that things have changed. That we still hate each other but now he has the upper hand. He has Lucas and I don’t. And he’ll do everything in his power to keep us away from each other.