Brooklyn:
After being forced to spend one summer in Italy with her grandma, Brooklyn always found her way back to the cobblestone streets but not for the feeling of a summer never ending, but for Valentino, a boy who radiates trouble and sees throu...
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POV: Dima A time before Valentino and Brooklyn existed The villain will always be the villain if the hero tells the story." – K
I am Scar.
Captain Hook.
Gaston.
I am the villain in every damn story you read.
When you were a kid, you applauded when the heroes beat the big bad guy with the power of friendship and memories, but have you ever wondered about me?
About what made me so "bad"?
No one does because everyone is so selfish and shallow.
They don't have depth like I do because I wanted to be Scar.
I wanted to be Captain Hook.
There is no hero without a villain, no story without conflict.
So why do you hate me?
The true hero
Most will hate me, but the few who pay attention to me and my story will realize that there is no such thing as a villain without a past.
An artist without a muse
A poet without a heart
To begin, it all started when I was eight.
🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮 My papa said, sitting at the edge of my stained bed that was on the floor, "We leave at dawn."
I didn't care though, listening to the rhythm of the drops from the leaking ceiling going into the blue buckets, making a soothing sound.
"It's not safe here, there's war," my papa continued, getting up to make sure the room held no trace of the vacancy of my family.
I wanted to say that there was war everywhere.
It's all around us; it's in the way we talk to one another, with words as sharp as swords.
It's in our eyes, the way we can belittle each other with judgmental eyes.
War is beautiful.
It brings us together yet divides us, creating a line between "right" and "wrong."
The aftermath always shows we, humans, are the true monsters; we kill our brothers and sisters, we break each other into pieces.
For what?
For freedom?
for a better life?
There is no such thing.
I should have known that right before we got into the boat.
The trip was never-ending; for days, my family and I were on the move constantly, squished with other runaways in the backs of vans, trucks, and trains.
My muscles ached, my eyes burned with fatigue, and my stomach started to hollow into itself, but I was glad.
Glad because feeling meant I was alive and that my family still had a shot at making it to America.
I was so sure.
One night, when I was "sleeping" with my head on my father's shoulder, I heard harsh voices outside.
The truck has stopped, and there was a sudden scream.
The other passengers and I looked towards the sound, seeing a woman screaming and holding a little boy behind her.
"We need payment," the men screamed, taking out a knife.
The woman sobbed and shook her head, praying for mercy that she was not gifted.
When he sliced her throat in one smooth motion, my father tensed.
They were going to each person and demanding payment, and each person who couldn't pay met the fate of that woman.
We were close to Belarus; I could feel it, and I know the other passengers did too.
Hope.
They were dangling our future right in front of us, making us so desperate that we would give them every penny in our pockets.
Once we passed this, we would just have to go to Africa, catch a plane with the little money we had left for Mexico, and then eventually run to America, but I know this would not happen when it was our turn.
My papa trembled, offering a quarter of the money we had to the drivers; they almost took it until they saw my mama.
My mama is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, glowing with something that attracted people to her, even the worst people.
"We want the woman instead," said the driver, who threw the money back to us.
My papa pleaded with the drivers not to take her, but they didn't care.
"No woman, no drive," the driver said, eyeing my mom.
My papa started to get on her knees begging them, but something all of a sudden happened.
The cool surface of a knife met my neck, and without hesitation, my mama gave herself up.
I screamed and screamed, begging my mom not to, but once the man nodded towards the other men, the deal was done.
As the car drove away, my eyes never left my mom, standing in between two men, trying to stand strong like she always did, but even as a boy, I knew my parents were human.
I knew my mom would not survive the torture of the monsters we left her with.
Smiling weakly, my mama mouthed goodbye, and I waved until she was out of sight.
That was the last time I ever saw my mama. ____________________________________ A/N: Want to check out Dima's love story 🤭 See my second book In the Shadows
