The Destruction

Asher stood still, frozen, as seconds ticked by before he turned towards me. He looked at me, and I could see the anger, the fury, the fire burning hot in his eyes, and it made me scared.

I took a step back, and that little movement seemed to be the thing that broke him from his trance because before I could blink an eye, he was already there—right there in front of m

As he looked at me, I tried avoiding eye contact. His gaze was too piercing, too intense, and it made me too scared, so I looked down.

But he gritted out angrily, commanding, “Look at me.”

I raised my head up, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

“Look. At. Me.” He gritted out each syllable, his voice sharp. Then, he asked me, “What did you say?”

I shook my head. I was afraid to speak out, afraid to repeat the words that had already left my mouth. Just moments ago, he had mocked the idea of me having a boyfriend, of being with someone else, of being married. And now, now he was acting so mad because I told him I had a son.

“Repeat what you fucking said!” he shouted, making me whimper.

“I said I have a son,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “He depends on me. I can't leave him. I'm the only person—the only parent, the only guardian—he has. I can’t leave him. He is just a little boy, please....”

“You have a son?” He asked again as if he hadn’t heard me the last two times.

I nodded. “Yes.”

Before I could grasp what had happened, his fist flew and landed beside my head. On the wall, hard.

I screamed, closing my eyes tightly, and taking a step back, but I realized I had already reached the end of my road—I was already by the wall. Fear gripped me, suffocating. I thought he was going to punch me, that he was going to hit me. But no—his fist landed beside me instead.

I was so scared. Tears streamed down my face as I whimpered, my body trembling. Slowly, cautiously, I opened my eyes, afraid that any sudden movement would set him off.

He was still standing there, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp, angry motions. Fury radiated from him, raw and unfiltered. It was clear as day.

I was terrified.

His eyes snapped shut for a moment as he clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to rein himself in. That was when I noticed his hand—the one that had slammed into the wall. Bruises had already formed, and blood smeared his knuckles. But despite the injury, he kept flexing his fingers as if he felt nothing as if pain meant nothing to him.

It must have hurt.

A part of me—one I wished at this moment in time had died—wanted to reach out, take his hand, treat it, pamper it with kisses. But I knew better. Now was not the time. I knew he was trying to check his temper, fighting a battle within himself.

So, I just stood there, shivering, waiting for what he would do next.

For what felt like hours, he remained silent before finally opening his eyes. But the fire in them hadn’t dimmed. He was still angry—angry and cold.

“So I was right all along,” he said, his voice laced with accusation.

I frowned, confusion clouding my mind. What did he mean?

Then, he laughed.

It wasn’t a laugh of joy. It wasn’t one of amusement. It was cold. Cruel.

But at least he took a step away from me.

Then he turned to look at me again, and his next words shattered me.

“My father was right. You are nothing but a lowly-rank whore.” His voice was sharp, filled with nothing but contempt.

“I can't believe I ever fell for you and your antics. Acting all innocent in front of me, while deep inside, you're filled with nothing but dirt.”

I stared at him, my vision blurred with tears. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to defend myself.

I just—didn’t.

"This is the reason why you left, isn't it?" he asked me.

I hesitated, my breath caught in my throat, but eventually, I nodded.

His fist slammed into the wall beside me again. The impact made me jolt, my head hitting the cold surface behind me. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself, whispering in my head over and over—No, no, no, no, no, no.

"I should kill you," he swore under his breath, his voice dripping with venom. "I really should kill you right now and just get rid of everything. Erase you from the face of the earth."

A chill ran down my spine.

"Everybody already thinks you're dead. Nobody will even think to look for you."

No.

With this, I could not agree.

"No, please," I choked out, my voice trembling. "Please don't kill me. Please don't kill me. Please— my son needs me...."

"SHUT UP!" he roared, cutting me off as he suddenly stepped back.

Then the destruction began.

The glass shattered as he swept bottles off the table, the liquid splashing onto the floor in a mess of alcohol and broken shards. The sound was shattering. He grabbed a chair and threw it across the room, making it crash against the wall. A table followed. More chairs. More destruction.

And all I could do was curl into myself, pressing my forehead against my knees, hands over my ears, trying to block it all out.

The noise. The chaos. His destruction.p

I cried, shaking, hoping this would end, hoping I wouldn't become part of the wreckage he was creating.

Then, just when I thought it wouldn't end... silence.

Slowly, I peeped up from between my arms.

He was standing there, staring down at me.

"Who is he?" he asked, his voice calmer but even more dangerous.

I blinked, my mind scrambling.

"Who?" I whispered. "My son?"

His jaw clenched, but I continued,

"His name is—"

"Shut the fuck up!" he barked, his rage flaring again.

I flinched.

"Not your stupid bastard son," he spat.

I winced as if he had physically struck me, but he didn't care as he continued.

"I'm asking you—who is the man you've been cheating on me with? Who is the man that helped you run away from me?"