My hand tightens around the phone until I think it'll break into irreparable pieces. A part of me is disappointed that it doesn't and remains intact. Like my head.

My gaze slides from the phone to the canvas. I started to have a vision, made a few strokes, then had to physically force my hand down.

It was doing things my brain doesn't approve of and never will. I should be working on a landscape painting, but I couldn't bring myself to touch that.

Instead, I was thinking of eyes. I don't fucking do eyes. Eyes send my head up a fucking wall.

I stopped painting people and animals for that reason. I succeeded for years, but now, here I am again.

My thoughts were running rampant, which is why I was thankful when I got Mum's call. But then not so much when I couldn't stop myself from staring at the canvas even when I was talking to her.

Things got worse when she could tell I wasn't myself —not that I ever am—and she started probing and worrying.

I hate it when I'm a constant cause of concern for her.

It's the worst.

My gaze falls back on my phone and my heart thuds when a new text pops in. But it sinks down so hard afterward when I see Clara's name.

Fuck.

Clara: BABE! I got your gift! Love the LV bag, it's sooo pretty. I already posted it on IG and tagged you! You're so precious, handsome. Love you and miss youuu x Can I come to hang out in your room tonight? I bought the sexiest lingerie 😉 🍆 💦

My fingers are on autopilot as I type.

Me: I can't. I promised the guys I'd spend time with them. I’ll make it up to you another time

Clara: 🥺 Ok. Love you, babe.

Me: ❤️

My gaze remains fixated on the conversation, specifically on the last word she sent.

Babe.

I didn’t care for it until {{user}} had said it. Or a more intimate version of it.

Now, I fucking hate it.

My finger is unsteady as I exit my texts with Clara and scroll down for some time until I find the name that I hate more than baby.

I click on the conversation that I started two days after {{user}} called me that, touched me in ways they had absolutely no right to, then proceeded to punch my face.

Me: Hey. I wanted to apologize for what I said the other time. I really meant no disrespect and I'm sorry if you got offended. Me: This is Brandon King, by the way.

They read the texts but never replied.

That was over two weeks ago.

Two weeks and I still find myself checking in case I missed a text.

Like now.

What on earth is wrong with me?

I just can't seem to stop replaying what happened that night. Over and over, like a broken fucking record. Again and again, it sneaks into my head and spreads on top of other thoughts like a special torture device.

Every day, I think of why I lost control so easily. I was cursing out loud-not once or twice, but several times. I snapped and growled and even used violence.

But the most embarrassing moment was when they had their lips on my jaw and throat, licking and exploring. My skin caught fire and I was on the edge of something nefarious.