87 Chapter One: A Whole New World

My shirt clung to me like an aggrieved lover. Blood pooled from the cuts on my wrists. I was going to die, and I was prepared for it. I had inflicted the wounds myself, after all. I watched it flow onto the white sheets my lame form was stuck to. I couldn't walk, not since my accident when I was twelve, and being stuck in this bed was almost as torturous as what had transpired the night before. 

Is this really my life?

I looked out the window at the rising sun, thankful that at least I'll see a beautiful view before I go. I looked down at the proof on my body that yesterday wasn't a dream and finally let the tears fall from my eyes. 

My chest and thighs were covered in bruises, from where I struggled. My cheeks felt sticky and I knew they were tear-stained. My throat hurt. I reached up, fingers weak, to grasp at it. Swollen. From the screaming, I realized numbly. And begging. Begging him to stop. A tray of food— toast with a jar of jam, two sunny-side-up eggs, three sausage links— was on the floor next to the bed where I'd thrown it, glass plates shattered. I don't remember the last time I ate.

They gave me silverware with the glass plates; a fork, a spoon, and a steak knife. How foolish. Had I been a weaker person, or maybe stronger, I'd have waited until that pig came back, and killed him with this silverware. I could get pretty creative. The fork in one eye, the knife through the neck, hopefully severing something; a nerve, a vein, anything that would lead to a painful and hopefully fast death. Or maybe, if I was stronger, I could free myself and call the police.

But I wasn't that strong, Or that weak. I just wanted release. To be free from this horrible and burdensome life. So I grabbed the knife, and like my resolved brain commanded of my limbs, I slowly slid the knife, bluntness and all, across my throat.

Instantly, a burn began as the knife slid across dry skin, catching at the rivets and veins. It didn't break the skin, leaving a red line in its wake. I hate pain, but I kept going. Finally, after several minutes of burning, blinding pain, I cut skin. It was but a trickle and I could tell this wasn't going to work. It wasn't deep enough.

I wanted to move, but I couldn't, reminding myself how helpless I truly was, unable to get up and leave or get help. I looked down at my bare wrists and swallowed. It was going to hurt, but it would work.

I held the knife against my skin, breathing heavily. I can do it, I thought. I can kill myself. The knife slid like butter. What do I have to live for? I wondered if it would be enough— if the blood loss would be enough to die. I just… wanted it to be over. My last thought in life as I sat naked in a hotel room, covered in white sheets that itched, was that I was tired. So, so tired. 

And then Antonio Graves breathed his last breath. 

✹✹✹✹✹✹✹

I often felt like a blip on a perfect record; a slight in Morgan Aimes' perfect life. The man was… neglectful, at best. Abusive, at worst. He did not want me, and the man made that very clear from early on. 

Especially when he found out that I would never walk again. Shattered, was the word that quack of a doctor used. Walking would take nothing short of a miracle, he'd stated, so sure.

And he was right. 

I never walked again in this life.

✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹

Warm, humid wind flowed through the cracked window, accompanied by the laughter and screams of teenagers on the field next to the old school building. My eyes tracked the group of able-bodied boys playing football, envy running through my veins. The heat overwhelmed me, making my uniform cling 

I could feel sweat trailing down my neck and felt nauseous. Gross. Why is it always so hot? I hated the heat, almost to the point of irrationality. It felt like fire against my skin. I wondered what the point of living is when all I have to show for it is smoking skin. I felt like an alien growing too big for my skin, stretching. 

Dying. 

Maybe I should just kill myself? It was a thought I had often. The anti-depressants weren't working like they were supposed to. I felt like I had no emotions at all. There was no artificial happiness the doctors claimed the pills would give me. The small circular pills were the bane of my mornings.

I took a bite of my browning apple. 

A loud cheer brought my attention back to the field and the game afoot outside. The 'shirts' team just got a goal, and the team— prematurely, in my opinion— was in the throws of a victory huddle. My half-brothers were among the yelling youths, George and Victor Aimes stomping with victory. Beau Aimes, my youngest older brother, just a few months older than I, was on the 'skins' team, playing goalie. The huddle broke with a shout and the game resumed, a 'skins' team runner taking the lead, headed for the 'shirts' goal.

I couldn't remember the feeling of running around, couldn't remember the feeling of walking.

Not since the accident.

The classroom door slammed open, and a group of girls tumbled in through the open door, faces flushed from the heat, giggles erupting from their slender forms. "Can you believe Aaron asked me to the formal?"

"I know! Oh em gee, you're going to say yes, right?"

"Well, I dunno. He's cute, but—"

I tried to drown them out. I finished his subpar lunch as fast as I could, feeling like eyes were staring at me. 

"Hey, isn't that—" 

Yup. I was. "Shhh! Don't stare!" A giggle. "It's Beau's half-brother! You know, the foreigner!"

I loved being reduced to that, "Beau's half-brother, the foreigner", known simply as the foreign kid who was "rescued" by the Aimes family. 

I'd give it all away to see my mothers again. 

Irene and Sheri Graves were two very different women, head over heels in love, and desperately wanted a baby. They adopted me. They named me Antonio after Irene's father— he died just before their wedding, after years and years of arguing with Irene that Sheri wouldn't make her happy, or fulfill her life because she was a woman and could not give her children— Irene used to go on tangents about the man. But in the end, he folded and accepted their matrimony, only to die a few weeks before the wedding. 

Sheri was a music teacher, and Irene was a retired marine, having been injured overseas. That's where they met. Irene was taking a vacation in Austria, after her accident, and Sheri lived there, studying music. I don't know much about their "story", but I do know it wasn't all sunshine and daisies. But it worked, and they fell in love.

Sheri got me into music. Mainly the piano and violin, but I also tried my hand at the piccolo. I...wasn't good. But I was good at piano, and won a few awards. And every time I won, Sheri and Irene would take me out for ice cream, at this amazing Italian creamery, in our small town.

We were on our way to get ice cream when I lost them.

An 18-wheeler going too fast on an icy road with tires ill-equipped for the weather. Sheri died on impact, and Irene stayed alive long enough to call an ambulance, her body protecting me. I lost two parents and became paralyzed for life.

I remember waking up in the hospital, worried out of my mind. I worried for my mothers, who weren't next to me, and worried because I couldn't feel my legs. I haven't since. 

The warning bell rang, signaling that only five minutes were left before classes continued.

I quickly wheeled over to the trash, threw away what was left of my meager lunch, and returned to my desk. The teacher walked in, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor. I liked my homeroom teacher, Miss Davies. She had long bottle-blonde hair, bushy brown eyebrows, pale brown eyes, and sharp features. She only wore suits and could be counted on to have a red lip. She had a spark that always drew my attention. Add on she treated me like every other student, which was more than I could say about the rest of my teachers. 

"Settle down, Settle— Shut up! Thank you. Now, since this is self-study time, I won't make this too long, but field day is coming up and those who want to volunteer or compete in the competitions need to sign up—"

I wished I could compete. I longed to run, to laugh, to kick a ball, to swim. I longed to wiggle my fucking toes. But I couldn't.

And it drove me mad.

✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹

I hated my father's house. Sure, it was big and spacious and my bedroom was next to a wheelchair-accessible bathroom, but the house was lifeless and cold. The house was worse than a one-star hotel. I didn't even get to feel like a guest. I was a burden, a hobo squatting in the parking lot of a fast food joint, being glared at by everyone for daring to not have a place to live or a job. He felt like a stranger. 

I never felt like this before living with Morgan and Gloria. In the four years I'd lived with them they'd somehow taken the bright, bubbly, and talented younger me and turned him into a depressed, anti-social teenager who could barely look at a piano before breaking down in tears. 

"Antonio," Gloria said, brows twisted in anger. "I heard from Miss Davies that you requested access to the piano room during breaks." She spoke through gritted teeth, as though even acknowledging me was beneath her.

I looked at Gloria, meeting her dark eyes. Gloria looked like the Latin singer she was; her dark hair hung in healthy ringlets trailing down her back; her wide, doe eyes were surrounded by a sea of dark lashes; Her figure would make every insecure woman jealous; and her plump lips were lined with a dark purple lip-liner and painted with a dark gloss. She was beautiful and talked with a slight accent.

Gloria, thankfully, underwent English classes when she trained to be a pop star, her producers wanting her to understand the words she was saying and not just know how to pronounce them.

I nodded.

"...If that's what you want." She said, "I'll tell the teacher."

Thank you, I thought, staring at her retreating back. 

But I never said the words.

✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹

I could still remember the day we met; How Morgan looked at me, spat the words, "I am your father" and told me in no uncertain terms that he was being forced to take me in.

My smart alec response was to call the man my sperm donor and tell him to get out of my room. I already have a family, I added. 

And the man's response had left me speechless. 

"Well, then… where are they?"

And really, I had no answer to that. 

✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹

I wasn't bullied at first.

Hell, I wasn't even bullied until one of Beau's admirers got it in his head that second best was better than nothing, and didn't do well with rejection. He was handsome, well-liked, and came from a rich background. So, naturally, no one believed me when I claimed the older boy was harassing me. When I rejected the boy, the pride he'd thrown out to "chase" me reared its ugly head and desired ugly revenge.

And I couldn't fight back.

When I woke up in the hospital, my room was empty and I was strapped to a dozen machines. It mirrored that day, almost six years ago eerily. A nurse came in shortly after I woke and told me that I'd been asleep for three days. She also scolded me for not eating properly, as if I truly had control over that. 

It broke something in me when I realized this random nurse, a stranger, was the first to care about my eating habits since my parents died. 

Morgan came in sometime later and sat down beside me, unusually silent, like he was pondering everything life had to offer. Then he stood up, and I was, rightfully, confused. So, so confused. The man hadn't even looked at me and was already leaving. 

What. the. Hell? "Wait," I said, my voice cracking from disuse. "That's it? You're not gonna say anything?" 

"What do you want me to say?" 

I grit my teeth. "Anything." He stopped. Turned around. Walked back to his side. Raised his hand. And slapped me hard in the face. My lip split and blood burst into my mouth, pooling at the back of my throat. I stared down at my sheets in shock.

"You're actions have consequences, Antonio. Think about that next time you do something like this. There. Is that what you wanted?"

I laughed. It was a bitter laugh. I was gripping the sheets, my knuckles white, and my chest felt heavy. What did I do? What the fuck did Morgan Aimes think transpired? Why are the actions of someone else being put on my shoulders? Why must I bear the consequences? I knew, without a doubt, that I would have rather died with my mothers than met my father. 

I glared at the empty space where Morgan once stood long after he'd left the hospital room.

✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹

Morgan Aimes sealed my fate a few weeks after my hospital visit. I was forced to come to a banquet with the man and his family, wearing a suit that was far too big for me. 

It made me look like a child, but I suppose that was the goal.

I had wondered why they invited me, but soon the answer fell into my lap. Morgan introduced me to a large man with pig-like facial features and a hungry look in his eyes. He was in his late fifties and balding. They shook hands. 

"Is this him?" He asked.

"Yes. This is my… son, Antonio. Is he to your liking?"

The man licked his lips in response. 

"He's almost eighteen," Morgan said.

"It's legal." The man agreed.

And that was that. 

I committed suicide the next morning. 

✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹✹

I didn't know what I expected the afterlife to look like. Clouds; mountains; nature, maybe. Not a void of emptiness. 

It was an endless room of white. 

I inexplicably felt like crying. 

"I am sorry, child." A velvet voice whispered into the stillness. 

"Whose there?!" I yelped, scrambling onto my hands and knees— Wait. I looked down, at my position and fell back, and tried to wiggle his toes.They fucking moved!! "Oh, my god. Oh- Ohmygod." I breathed, laughing giddily. 

"I am glad that this gift is one you like." I looked over and was surprised to see a woman squatting next to me. The first thing I saw was her golden eyes. She was beautiful. Skin so dark it resembled the night sky. No hair, but that only emphasized her sharp cheekbones and facial features. She had a gold jewel dangling delicately on her forehead attached to a silver headpiece wrapped around her scalp. She was ethereal.

"...why?" I croaked as I sat up.

"I'm sorry, child." Her voice was like honey. A soothing balm on my hurt soul. "I never meant for things to be this way."

"Who are you?" I asked, toes still flexing. 

She looked like a painting, graceful and pure. "I am Aphrite, the Goddess of life and love." She said. "And I am sorry."

"I'm Toni."

She nodded. "I know, goddess chosen. If I had known this world would be so cruel to you, I would have brought you to a different one."

My brows furrowed. "Goddess chosen?"

"Yes. You were chosen by me and blessed."

I just looked at her.

She was silent for a moment and then awkwardly offered, "I can fix it?" How could she fix this? "How about this? I'll take you to the world where your mothers are!" She said.

Sheri and Irene?

"Yes. They're together. Soulmates, as it is. I can make you their child and you can be with them again. And no birth parents or eighteen-wheelers will take them away from you." She said with conviction.

I could see my mothers again? "Do it." I was surprised by the determination and excitement in my voice. I wanted to see my moms. So much. It's all I've ever wanted since the day I woke up from my coma. Since the day my happy dream ended.

Aphrite smiled.

"I will give you the happiest life yet. You will be blessed, goddess chosen." She said, kissing my forehead. 

The last thing I saw was her golden eyes turning molten.