Chapter 13: The Purge I was going to use her. She didn't matter. Her pleasure didn't matter. My pleasure was all that mattered, right now. I had to get the anger out, get the hatred out, get the pain out. I had to purge myself of Valeria, of Miguel, of all the bullshit that had been weighing me down. I was going to fuck her until I forgot their faces, until I forgot their names, until I forgot everything but the raw, animalistic need to dominate and destroy. I kept calling her Valeria, and the pain in her eyes seemed to amuse me. I didn't stop. I was going to make her sorry. I was going to hurt her. I was going to show her what it felt like to be betrayed. I was going to choke her, and then I was going to… …stop. My hands loosened on her throat. The belt slipped from my fingers, landing softly on the thick carpet. I stared down at the girl, her face tear-streaked, red marks blooming on her neck. Her eyes, wide with terror, flickered with confusion as I released her. What the fuck was I doing? This wasn't me. This wasn't "fun." This was…wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong. The anger that had consumed me moments before began to dissipate, replaced by a wave of nausea and self-loathing. I stumbled back from the bed, feeling the weight of my actions crushing me. I felt like I was going to puke. "Get out," I choked out, my voice hoarse. She didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled off the bed, gathering the torn pieces of her dress around her. Her movements were jerky and uncoordinated as she stumbled towards the door, her eyes never leaving me. "Whoa, wait," I said. "Look…I…" But she was already gone, disappearing into the hallway like a ghost. I heard the muffled sound of the front door slamming shut, and then silence. I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty doorway, the torn dress a splash of red on the otherwise pristine white sheets. The music from the party throbbed faintly in the background, a mocking soundtrack to my descent into madness. I ran a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. What had I almost done? How close had I come to…something terrible? The image of Valeria flashed through my mind, not the Valeria who had betrayed me, but the Valeria I had loved, the Valeria who had made me laugh, the Valeria who…Jesus Christ. I had to get out of here. I stumbled out of the room, ignoring the curious glances from the partygoers. Bronny saw me and started to head my way, but I waved him off, not wanting to talk to anyone, not wanting to explain, not wanting to face the judgment in their eyes. I found Rich Paul near the bar, talking to Drake. He took one look at my face and his expression turned grim. "Let's go," he said, cutting off Drake mid-sentence. "Now." He didn't ask questions as he led me out of the penthouse, through the throng of oblivious revelers, and into the cool night air. We didn't speak on the drive back to my place. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the distant sirens of the city. I stared out the window, the neon lights blurring into streaks of meaningless color. When we pulled up to my building, Rich finally broke the silence. "You okay, Jim?" I shook my head, unable to meet his gaze. "I don't know, man. I really don't know." "You wanna talk about it?" "No," I said quickly. "I just…I need to be alone." He nodded, understanding. "Alright. But call me if you need anything. Anything at all, you hear?" "Yeah, yeah," I mumbled, already halfway out the door. I practically ran into my apartment, slamming the door behind me and locking it. The apartment was dark and quiet, a welcome contrast to the chaos I had just escaped. I didn't turn on the lights. I just stood there in the darkness, listening to the sound of my own breathing, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. I couldn't shake the image of the girl's face, the fear in her eyes, the red marks on her neck. I had almost become someone I didn't recognize, someone I didn't want to be. I stumbled into the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, my hair disheveled, my face pale and drawn. I looked like a goddamn mess. I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the guilt and the shame. But it didn't work. The feeling lingered, a heavy weight in my chest. I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water beat down on my skin. I scrubbed myself raw, trying to cleanse myself of the filth I felt inside. But even the scalding water couldn't wash away the memory of what I had almost done. I stayed in the shower for a long time, until the water ran cold and my skin was wrinkled and numb. Then I turned off the faucet and stepped out, shivering. I wrapped a towel around myself and walked into my bedroom, still dripping wet. I collapsed onto my bed, burying my face in the pillows. I needed to talk to someone. But who? I couldn't tell my parents what had almost happened. They would freak out. Greg would probably try to beat the shit out of me, which, frankly, I probably deserved. And I definitely couldn't tell Kenny or Zion. They would look at me differently, see me as some kind of monster. That's what I was, wasn't I? No. No, I couldn't be. I wouldn't be. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and scrolled through my contacts. My thumb hovered over Valeria's name, then quickly skipped past it. No. I couldn't talk to her. Not now, maybe not ever. Finally, I stopped at Demitra's name. She had been kind to me the other day, understanding, even. Maybe she could help. I hesitated for a moment, then pressed the call button. She answered on the second ring. "Jim? Is everything okay? It's late." "Hey, Demitra," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "Can…can I talk to you?" "Of course," she said, her voice softening. "What's wrong?" I took a deep breath and started to tell her everything, about Valeria, about Miguel, about the game, about the party, about the girl in the room, about…everything. I didn't hold anything back. I told her about the rage, about the self-doubt, about the almost overwhelming desire to hurt and destroy. I told her about the girl's terror, about the moment I had almost crossed the line, about the shame and guilt that were now consuming me. As I spoke, the weight on my chest seemed to lighten slightly. Just having someone to listen, someone who didn't judge me, someone who understood, made a difference. When I finally finished, there was a long silence on the other end of the line. I held my breath, waiting for her to say something, anything. "Jim," she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. "That sounds…really awful. What happened to you is awful, and what you almost did…it's good that you stopped." "But I almost didn't," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "That's the problem. I almost didn't." "I know," she said. "But you did. And that's what matters. You stopped. And you called me. That shows that you're not that person, that you don't want to be that person." "But what if I am?" I asked, my voice filled with despair. "What if that's who I really am, deep down?" "Then you fight it," she said, her voice becoming stronger. "You fight it with everything you have. You don't let it win. You're stronger than that, Jim. I know you are." Her words were like a lifeline, pulling me back from the brink. I clung to them, desperate for hope. "Thanks, Demitra," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I…I don't know what I would have done without you." "Anytime, Jim," she said. "Really. Call me anytime you need to talk. And…maybe you should think about talking to someone professional, someone who can help you work through all this stuff." "Maybe," I said. "Yeah, maybe you're right." We talked for a little while longer, about nothing in particular, just letting the sound of each other's voices fill the silence. Then, finally, I said goodnight. As I hung up the phone, I felt a little bit better, a little bit lighter. The weight on my chest hadn't completely disappeared, but it had lessened, shifted, become more manageable. I knew I had a long way to go. I knew I had a lot of work to do. But for the first time in days, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could find my way back to the person I wanted to be. I crawled under the covers and closed my eyes, the image of Demitra's kind face filling my mind. I needed to get my head right. I needed to get my life back on track. And the first step was admitting I had a problem. The next day I woke up, and I was going to call someone. I looked over at my nightstand, and I see my jewelry. I see my earrings. I grab my earrings, the stud and the hoop. I look at them for a second. Then, I put them on, on my left ear.