Chapter 53 | Hate Is Born When Love Has Failed

Elena's P.O.V.

I need a meaning. A fire to keep me alive.

My grip on life is weak and slippery, and I don't know how much longer I can go on. I'm living on borrowed time.

Who knew the world could be so cruel? So murderous?

I feel so empty, but how can I be hollow when I am crying so many emotions? Nothing feels right. I can't think straight or eat or just function.

Whatever I push down, comes up. Whether it be food or feelings, I can't control anything.

I'm choking and drowning in this thick atmosphere that is filled with nothing but a dark grief and emptiness. It's hollow, but how?

How can I drown in such sorrow? An empty hole brimming with living nightmares that haunt me every time I wake up.

Is this how I'm supposed to live the rest of my dead life? Living like a ghost?

Suddenly, the front door was slammed open and shut closed, breaking the fragile, yet, heavy silence in this soulless house.

Out of all the days and moments in this world, this was not the time.

"Hey, sweetheart," a voice spoke — a sound that should lit a child with happiness. It echoed in this hole, mirroring the emptiness in their words.

The sweet and calm tone summoned another wave of woe, causing me to sink deeper into the dark depression. It almost cut off the little oxygen that was left in the room, sucking the life out of the plants.

I lifted my head from my hands and met the eyes of those who killed my childhood.

'Mom and dad' are what most people would call them, but they are far from it. If there is one thing— one thing that they are not, it's a parent.

The man with brown and gray hair sighed, walking over to me to pat my shoulder. Silently, I flinched and pulled myself out of his empty comfort.

"We heard about. . . Hazel," he spoke gently, trying to comfort me with a small smile that was not even half genuine.

The mentioning of her name was like a stab. Another bleeding wound that tore me apart.

"We're both very sorry for your loss, honey," the woman continued, giving me a look of sympathy to cover her green, toxic eyes.

"It must have been very tough for you to lose such incredible friend," the man finished the robotic words that seemed to have been rehearsed with his wife; almost as if it was a presentation.

As if it was all just some work.

He tried to pat my shoulder again, but I leaned away from him, which made him awkwardly retread his hand.

"It is." Was all I could say through the different emotions that crossed each other's paths.

I couldn't look them in the eye when I spoke. The last thing I needed to feel was betrayed.

Betrayed by the two people who were never there for me. Betrayed by how they never showed up to any of the important events in my life. Betrayed by how they could just forget that I existed, by how they could ignore me so easily.

Betrayed by how they took my faith in them, abused and twisted it. Betrayed by how they just tore me apart and made me feel so. . . shattered.

They are the ones who betrayed the love I once had for them. A love that only exists as a myth. A love that they never, in their entire life, returned.

"Elena, sweetie?" The brown-haired woman dropped her crocodile tears, exposing the smile she had concealed.

"We have great news— or actually, it's your mother who has great news," he also gleamed, looking at his wife with anticipation.

I didn't reply nor show any gesture for them to continue. Frankly, I didn't want to hear it. I wanted them to leave me alone. I had no belief in them anymore; they broke every inch of hope that I once had.

They meant nothing to me. They only fueled hatred and pain.

"I got a promotion," she smiled widely. She actually had the authenticity to smile.

It disgusted me beyond. At the same time rage was growing, a sadness moved in as well. There and then, I realized that I did not obtain any value for them.

I am worthless. A nobody.

Living is worthless for one without a home. Involuntary love is worthless.

And then I realized: It's not worth it.

Her cheery face was shining, and it looked like she had forgotten what had happened.

All I could see from the sad disappointment that filtered my eyes was an empty love. A mirror that reflected my feelings of being neglected for years was now finally surfacing.

There was only a cold breeze swarming around them — a breeze that could easily turn a wind into a catastrophe.

But they would never see these dreadful colors bleeding from my heart. They were blind to emotions. They can't detect feelings, only see what they want to. They only understand words, but never the colors behind them.

These people were heartless, hollow of emotions and humanity.

A cold expression burned my face, and I looked away from them, averting my attention to the gray wall that contained more feelings than these two people combined.

It's not worth it.

The man stepped forward, "Elena, didn't you hear your mother?"

"Wait, I actually have one?" The words slipped out of my mouth before I could taste them. They were harsh and icy, like a start of a wintry breeze.

"Elena!" He raised his voice, but I didn't flinch as most kids would. "Here we are, flying all the way from New York to only be met with disrespect? You could at least have acted a bit happy for your mother."

That was the last straw. The last drop in the cup. The last, final push, and now. . . I can't.

I've hit the bottom.

"Happy? Happy? HAPPY?!" I repeated with disgust, raising my voice for every word and filling them with silent tears. "I lost my best friend — my family! Do you have any idea what I'm feeling? How completely lost I am? Can't you see that I'm hurting?"

The memories worked as a fuel to keep the dead fire alive, to keep drowning my broken heart in ache. "I'm in pain, and you want me to be happy? To be happy for that woman I barely know?"

"Stop it!" He shouted above my screaming voice, giving me a look of disapproval. "That's enough. You have crossed the line—"

"Oh, like you're anything better," I spat the poisonous words. "You are nothing more than a stranger like her!"

"Elena!" The woman gave me a similar look like her husband, her eyebrows knitted in condemnation. "That's your father you're—"

"I don't have one," I growled. "Nor a mother."

After all those tears I have shed because of them, I did not feel the slightest regret to hurt them.

Hate is born when love has failed.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," he continued, his green, lethal eyes hardening as he shook his head.

His words made the rage in my chest grow more than ever, but at the same time, they hurt like hell. Each word was a broken shard of glass, a knife that punctured my chest over and over again.

And re-opening old scars that I have used years to mend.

"I'm the one who should be ashamed?" Disbelief was displayed on my face, mixed with a hint of anger and disgust. "Do you even understand how much you've both hurt me for the past years? Never have you been there for me— not even once!"

It all came crashing down. And I couldn't catch it all.

"Where were you at my concerts? When I won those competitions and football matches? Why couldn't you visit me when I was in the hospital? Hm? Am I really not worth the time to visit? To just check on me? To see if I'm okay — or at least breathing?

"Where were you when I needed you? Where the hell where you when I cried and begged for you to come home? What was so important that you couldn't even send a goddamn text-message!?" I screamed, wanting nothing more than to hit and break everything. "Where were you at my birthdays? At the parties that the Phillips had to arrange because you obviously didn't want to? You didn't even congratulate me— do you guys know how much that hurt?"

Not a word was spoken, which made my heart ache even more than I thought I could handle. My breath ragged down a step — my soul following the action.

"Do you even know my birthday at all?"

Nothing. Absolutely utterly silence.

Worthless. Of all the things we can't tolerate, meaninglessness is the worst.

A trembling breath escaped my lips as my chest tightened up in a big knot. I was afraid of my next question, afraid of the answer that would echo back.

"Do you even know how old I am?"

Suddenly, they woke up. And the woman was the first one to break the ice with her cruel words, "We know you're old enough to not act like a child."

I was tired and defeated. All I could think about was how sleep would bring more peace and happiness than these two monsters could ever do in a thousand lifetimes.

I truly am worthless.

"Is that the best excuse you can come up with? After everything you've done, you have the nerve to say such a thing?" I retorted.

"You're being childish. We gave you everything you needed—"

"But you didn't!" I screamed loudly, hitting my fist on the table with such force that I knew that I had broken a finger or two. "You never did! You never gave me your love nor your time!"

"We were busy with work! Providing your future and all of your needs. What were you doing in the meantime, huh?" She threw back, her eyes hard and cold like a haunted mountain.

"I was crying," I whispered as all the sleepless nights crashed down to this one event. "While you were working, I was dying and feeling so lonely. I was thinking about ways that could end this pain."

"Oh, stop being so melodramatic. You're not depressed— you don't have anything to be—"

I continued, "And do you know who was there for me? That one person who held me while I was crying? Who wouldn't let go of me— refused to let me go, because she knew that the moment I was out, there was no coming back?"

Not a word nor a breath was spoken. They didn't have to answer, because it was obvious who my hero was.

It was quiet for a while before the brown-and-gray-haired man spoke again. "Elena Marie. We're here for you now and—"

"No," I shook my head. "You don't get it," I breathed out the dead air out of my lungs. "You're too late. You're seventeen years too late."

"Honey, listen. We're your parents—"

"No! You're nothing more than some strangers in this hellhole!"

"That's enough!" He roared, slamming his hand on the table with a strong force. Although the objects on the table stirred and moved, I did not. "This was not how we raised you."

"Exactly," I got out, my voice shaking in pain. I looked at them with a betrayed picture in my eyes, knowing that they could see it — see the mistake that was beyond repairable. "Because you never did."

He broke the eye-contact, letting his attention spill on the floor as he perhaps realized his actions. Or the actions that he never acted on.

"You guys don't even care," I chuckled, but there was no humor in it. Just broken parts that jiggled.

The woman stepped forward to do one last try to get to me. One last try to fix the broken, burnt bridge. "Elena," she whispered, giving me a look of desperation. "Of course, we care. You are our daughter."

She spilled the words that I had wished to hear for years — that every child yearns for.

But what's the point to speak such powerful words when you empty them of truth?

I'm worthless.

"I might be your daughter," I looked at the man and woman with sadness in their eyes, taking one last glance at them.

Then, I took a step back, finally walking out of their lives — out of this dark, soulless house.

"But you are not my parents."

And that was the last time I ever saw them.