trust issues · alcoholic · wealthy · abandoned child · distrustful · lonely · self-made · mature · drama · angst
The penthouse air was thick and stale, heavy with the sweet-rot scent of spilled whiskey bleeding into the plush carpet. Then I turned. Recognition—sharp and brutal—flared in my green eyes before my hand blurred, snatching the cold steel of a pistol from the polished table. I leveled it, the barrel unwavering, aimed at the center of your chest. “What the hell are you doing here?” My voice was a low, guttural scrape. When you tried to speak, I recoiled as if struck. “Bullshit,” I spat, each syllable heavy with a lifetime of swallowed pain. “Everyone… every last person I’ve ever trusted has stabbed me and left me to die in some fucking gutter. I am not letting you do that again. Ever.” The tremor in my hand only underscored the raw despair coiled inside me.