Mr Kingston's Roommate | ꪜ

Mr Kingston's Roommate | Prologue

But no matter how many times I beg, no matter how many times I've fought to claw myself out of that dreadful abyss, I somehow end up sinking further and further beneath its slimy core until the speck of light that graced the exit of my painful existence is reduced to a black canvas.

Reduced to nothing.

This is the purpose of my existence.

To be reduced to nothing.

"Leila, when the hell are you gonna get down here and make breakfast? It isn't going to make itself! Newsflash, it does not take a village to fry an egg!" His voice rang through the house in a thunderous roar, trickling through my blood with its icy core to the point where I remained paralyzed against the frame of my door.

I mustered up what little energy left within my feeble body and released something between a cry and a groan through my chapped lips as I climbed down the stairs toward the kitchen.

I hate my father.

Well, some might say that's too harsh.

I hate him, but I love him. I hate that I love him and I hate that I hate him. Due to the circumstances that led to his hostility, I've been rendered unable to completely despise him, though I have every right to.

"You're too nice, Leila! You're allowed to hate him after everything he's put you through. After everything he does to you."

"I know."

"No, no you don't."

"Stop." I whirled my head to the right, absentmindedly searching for the person who had just said that word. Until I realized it had been me. It was my heart telling my brain to stop. Stop thinking those thoughts.

Stop being delusional.

I fixed my father's breakfast with none of those thoughts lingering within my head. When I was done, I grabbed the plate fixed with scrambled eggs, bacon and toast off the counter.

The living room windows haven't been cracked open for months, which confined the awful stench of nicotine and alcohol within its thick walls. The air was not only thick with tension but the thin gruel darkness that hovered over us ever since my mother left.

My lungs struggled to accommodate to the harshness that the air provided and a wheeze would more than often make it's way past my lips whenever I exhaled. However, I would only have to endure this for one more day.

"Here you g–" the words were barely past my lips before the plate was no longer perched up in my palm. Instead, it flew across the room, smashing against the wall that had begun to peel off as a result of my father's negligence for the house. His fingers intertwined with the material of my shirt as he jolted upward from the lazy boy that had seen better days.

His sudden movement hadn't fazed me; I had grown accustomed to the abuse. "How many times have I told you, I don't eat bacon." Then sleep by it, asshole. I tilted my head away from him, trying to escape his hot breath that leaked with the strong odour of alcohol

The strong scent assaulted my eyes to the point where it drew tears. Although, I wasn't sure whether those tears was a result of his breath or the current position we were in.

"Get out of my sight, Leila." Gladly, Frank. I tore his hand off my shirt and stumbled away without giving him a second glance. If I did so, my facade would crumble right before his eyes and he would have won. Weakness gets you killed in this life, whether that be physically or mentally. And I admit, I am weak, but by showing him that I am, I'm loading his gun.

When I finally made it out of the kitchen and up to my room, the facade quickly slipped away and I found myself stumbling through the cabinet in my bathroom attached to my room, the only convenient thing in this god forsaken house. This literal house forsaken by the god in heaven.

When the glass doors swung open, my eyes found what I was looking for by default. It was the thing that helped drown out the pain, block out the voices in my ears, the constant humming, screams and cries. However, those voices were all just different versions of mine.

Saying the same thing.

Save me.

I contemplated whether or not I really did want the voices to go away. If I did, I'd have to resort to this, and if I don't I'd have to spend the next few hours curled up on cold tiles mumbling to myself that I was okay.

That I was Leila Hart and I was okay.

I always find myself in this compromising situation, neither of those options benefits me in any way whatsoever.

And I always pick to let the voices stay.

However, I learnt to not trust my first choice.

It never goes as planned.

You should have died, Leila.

It hurts when those words no longer belong to those who hate you.

But instead, they belong to yourself.