His trauma

RYAN

“Come with me,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

She hesitated. “Where?”

“To my room,” I replied.

Her brows knitted together, doubt flickering across her face, but she followed me. Quietly. Cautiously.

The walk upstairs was filled with a tension that pressed heavy in the air. I could hear her soft footsteps behind me, feel the hesitation radiating off her. My grip tightened on the banister as we reached the door to my room.

I pushed it open, stepping aside to let her in.
Her gaze darted around the room before finally settling on me.

“Why are we here, Ryan?” she asked

I shut the door behind us, leaning against it as I studied her. “Because I’m tired of you thinking I’m pretending. I’m not. I just… don’t know how to be what you expect.”

I walked towards my library and pushed in the button and the door to my room fling open.
Violet gasped,her eyes filled with curiosity. ,”You didn't want me in here then”

I had never let anyone in—not into this room, not into this part of me.

But something about Violet made it feel... possible. Like maybe, just maybe, she could understand.

“This way” I said gruffly, gesturing for her to follow me.

She didn’t say a word, her soft footsteps trailing behind me as I led her in. I could feel her curiosity, her unease, but she didn’t ask any questions. Not yet.

The familiar scent of oil paints and varnish greeted me, and for a moment, I almost backed out. Almost slammed the door shut and told her to forget it. But instead, I stepped aside and let her in.

She froze the moment she entered, her breath hitching audibly.

The room was exactly as I’d left it. The walls were lined with paintings, the floor scattered with canvases .The only light came from a small desk lamp in the corner, casting long shadows over the images.

They weren’t beautiful.

They weren’t meant to be.

Dark, chaotic brushstrokes clawed across every surface, each piece more harrowing than the last. A faceless figure trapped behind bars of black and red. A pair of eyes, wide and terrified, peering from the darkness. Hands reaching out, fingers twisted and broken.

Each painting was a fragment of my mind, a piece of the nightmares that never let me rest.

Violet stepped further into the room, her eyes taking in the sight

“Oh my God,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Ryan... did you paint these?”

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

She turned slowly, her gaze moving from one canvas to the next. “They’re... they’re so...”

“Ugly?” I offered, my lips twisting into a bitter smile.

“No.” She looked at me, her eyes glistening. “They’re…”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, my gaze dropping to the floor. “This is it, Violet. This is what’s inside me. The stuff I can’t say out loud. The stuff I can’t let go of.”

She didn’t move, didn’t speak, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. If I’d scared her, pushed her too far.

But then she stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch one of the canvases. Her fingers hovered over the surface, just barely grazing the paint.

“What is this one about?” she asked softly, pointing to a painting in the corner.

It was one of the darkest ones—a small figure curled up in a corner, shadowed by a larger, menacing silhouette. The strokes were frenzied, desperate, as though I’d been trying to claw the image out of my mind.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. “That’s…her” I said finally

"Her?" Violet’s voice was soft, hesitant, as she turned to me with confusion etched into her delicate features.

I swallowed hard, the name tasting like acid on my tongue. "Ms. Margaret," I said finally, each syllable dragging memories to the surface that I’d buried so deep I sometimes convinced myself they didn’t exist.

"When I was a kid," I began, my voice trembling as I forced myself to meet her eyes, "we had this housekeeper. Ms. Margaret. She seemed normal at first. Strict, sure, but… normal. My dad was always busy. My mom... well, she wasn’t in the picture. Margaret was the one who looked after me."

I paused, the weight of what I was about to say pressing down on my chest like a vice. "At first, I didn’t understand it. I was just a kid. I thought... I thought it was just the way things were. She’d come into my room at night, say she was checking on me. I didn’t think much of it until..."

My throat tightened, the words threatening to choke me. "She’d kiss me. At first, it was on the forehead, then the cheek... but then it wasn’t. She told me it was our little secret, that I couldn’t tell anyone. I... I was too scared to disobey."

Violet’s breath hitched. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, but I could still see her trembling fingers. I had to look away before her reaction broke me entirely.

"Then one night, she—" I clenched my fists, the words catching in my throat. My voice dropped to a whisper, low and raw. "She raped me."

The silence was deafening. I didn’t look at Violet—I couldn’t. Instead, I stared at the floor, at the cracks in the wooden boards, trying to focus on anything but the memories clawing at the edges of my mind.

"I remember running out of the house afterward," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I spent hours wandering the streets, dazed. It was raining, but I barely noticed. The cold wasn’t just outside. It was in me—in my chest, in my mind. I was frozen."

I drew in a shaky breath, forcing myself to continue. "When I got home, I stood in the shower for two hours. But no matter how much I scrubbed, it didn’t feel like water hitting my skin. It felt like black ink, seeping into my pores, filling my lungs until I was choking. Her perfume—it was this sickly floral scent—clogged my nose, my throat, and no matter how much I retched, I couldn’t get rid of it. Her nails..." I broke off, my voice cracking. "Her red nails were like claws, choking me even when she wasn’t there."

My hands trembled as I ran them through my hair, trying to steady myself. "I didn’t go to bed that night. I couldn’t. Every time I moved, I felt her ghost behind me, her nails sinking into my arms, her voice in my ear. I was terrified she’d come back. And she did. Every night after that, she came back."

Violet let out a soft sob, and when I glanced at her, her face was streaked with tears. I wanted to stop—to spare her—but the words kept coming.

"She threatened me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Said she’d kill my parents if I told anyone. And I believed her. So, I kept quiet. I endured it. For years."

The room seemed colder now, the weight of my confession pressing down on both of us.

"Then one day, she went further. She and her husband kidnapped me." My jaw tightened, anger surging through me as the memory surfaced. "They demanded ransom money from my dad, and when he paid,they threatened me. Told him if I ever said anything,if I ever revealed the truth about who they were, they'd kill him.."

My voice cracked as I forced out the next words. "A day after I was released, my mom... she died."

Violet gasped, her hand flying back to her mouth.

"It was ruled an accident," I said bitterly. "They said her office caught fire. But I don’t believe that. I think they killed her—because of me. Because I couldn’t stop them. I caused her death."

I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles turned white. "That’s why I fight," I said quietly, my tone laced with a raw edge. "Not for glory, not for the rush. It’s the only way I know how to take back control. To silence the demons she left behind."

Violet’s eyes glistened, her lips parting as if to say something, but I wasn’t finished.

"And painting..." I let out a shaky breath. "It’s the only place I can feel free. It’s the one thing she didn’t take from me. When I paint, it’s like I’m reclaiming the pieces of myself she tried to destroy. It’s messy, chaotic, and sometimes it doesn’t make sense... but it’s mine. It’s the only part of me that’s still mine."