I once heard that, behind every beautiful thing, there’s some kind of pain.

But, pain is such a subjective thing. What simply hurts one person, may be wholly debilitating to another. What crushes one person’s soul may barely sear the surface of another’s consciousness.

And there are different kinds of pain, whether it be physical, emotional, or all encompassing.

How we feel it, how much we feel it, and its detrimental effects matter very little in the scheme of things. Because pain is just that; pain.

Painful. And it demands to be felt.

That’s one thing that we, as humans, have in common, regardless of age, background, or abilities.

We feel pain.

At twelve years old, I thought I knew what it was like to experience pain. To be hurt by those around me, molded into submission and silence by those that claimed to love me. And perhaps that’s the truth of it, that pain and love are two sides of the same coin. One cannot exist without the other, because they are so similar that it’s impossible to feel where one emotion ends and the other begins.

Maybe that was my biggest downfall, growing up in a home where I was told it was love that I felt—that they felt. But, that love hurt me. Physical, emotional…all encompassing.

But, as I stood there and watched as the woman I’d looked up to and depended on—the woman I’d loved, if that was truly what the feeling was—slumped to the floor, a dark, black hole beginning to bloom out from the middle of her chest, it donned on me.

I did love her. She was my mother, my confidante, and my only safeguard in this hellhole we called a home. And now she was gone.

I’d loved her, and now that love was causing excruciating pain in the deepest depths of my chest—two sides of the same coin. Because I couldn’t feel that emotion without pain following in its wake.

Tears stung my eyes, and a gut-wrenching scream sounded in the room. It took a fraction of a second for me to realize it had come from my own mouth.

“You son of a bitch!” The words ripped from my throat with such vehemence, I barely recognized my own voice. I struggled against the firm grip on my arms, held in place by two large men clad in similar leather jackets. But my limbs were heavy and weak with exhaustion, and each movement wasn’t just restricted, but met with resistance, as though the air that surrounded me was thick and obstructive. Even the sounds of their curses and commands to shut up seemed distant, and I barely heard the faint wheeze and hiss that came each time my mother attempted to breathe.

But, she may as well have been a mile away. I couldn’t save her now, just as she’d never truly been able to save me.

“You monster!” I cried out to the tall man before me, still holding the rifle in his hands. “Why? W-why!”

I didn’t mean it as a question, mostly because I knew he’d never answer. And because I already knew what his misguided reasons were.

No one betrayed Creighton Banks. No one disobeyed him.

And no one ran from him.

“You know why.” His eyes were dark with malice, his gaze more steely than I’d ever seen in my twelve years of life. But they weren’t focused on me. Instead, Creighton’s attention was on the woman at his feet.

Hiss, wheeze. Hiss, wheeze.

A labored breath in, a labored breath out.

Then, suddenly, there was a deafening silence.

She breathed no more. Her chest didn’t rise and fall, and her eyes no longer saw. Instead, my mother’s stare was vacant, fixated somewhere in the general vicinity where Creighton’s men held me. She had begged him, pleaded with him to have mercy. Not on her. On me.

But it was too late for that. The look on his face told me that. The way he’d watched the life seep out of my mother’s body, captivated by the sight of her eyes growing dim. It wasn’t quite enjoyment that marred his features, but an odd fascination lingered there, and it chilled me to the core.

“You’re a monster,” I whispered, but the venom in my words was gone.

Gone, just like my mother. The only good thing I’d had left in this world.

“Oh, I’m just getting started, sweetheart.” Creighton reached one hand out, clutching me by the chin, which was now slippery with the hot tears that I could no longer control. “And you’re going to wish I’d finished you off just as fast.”

I watched him lie the gun down on the table. I believed every word he said.

I should’ve been scared. Petrified. But only resignation pulsed through me. He wasn’t going to let me live, and he would make me wish for death. And it would be the last thing I would do.

Because no one betrayed Creighton Banks and lived to tell about it.

So, if it’s true—that behind everything beautiful, there’s some kind of pain—I don’t believe it. I can’t. Because there’s nothing beautiful about this moment, nor will there ever be. Because this is just pain. Raw, scorching, heartbreaking pain. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to see, or feel, beyond it again.

And, if Creighton Banks has his way, I won’t have to.