142: Revenge Hungry.

I never understood grief because I lost my mom before my head could fathom it. Before, my heart knew that kind of sorrow existed, but often, as a curious little girl, I would sneak out in the middle of the night and find my father hunched over in the living room, staring at a picture of my mother with tears streaming down his eyes.

I was never brave enough to approach him; rather, I stared from afar, wondering why my heart suddenly felt so heavy and why he kept panting like he couldn't breathe because his whole world was tumbling apart.

And I have never understood my father so much than now, as I stood listening to my fated mate speak of me like garbage, hearing the atrocities he had caused and the harm he brought my way, knowing all along that I dined with the devil with a smile on my face. It was another kind of pain, an indescribable, terribly heart-wrenching kind of pain.

I didn't know how to breathe, and neither did I know how my legs carried me from the front of the door soun