Fueled by rage, I pushed Chelsea, who had followed me down the stairs, hard to the ground.
“Ah!”
Ignoring her screams, I pounced on her, grappling with her as I struggled to lash out in any way I could. I spotted a teacup on the coffee table and smashed it, grabbing a shard of glass. I jabbed at her, lost in my fury. My own palm was cut and bleeding, but I felt nothing; all I could think about was avenging Buddy.
“Alexander, help! Madeline’s gone crazy! She’s trying to kill me!”
But I couldn’t finish what I started. I was so weak, my energy nearly spent. I managed only to scratch her shoulder before Alexander came rushing down.
He yanked me off her, cradling Chelsea protectively in his arms. His eyes, usually warm and loving, were now filled with concern and disappointment.
“Madeline, what are you doing?! Chelsea is sick! You can’t just attack her like this! Apologize to her!” he demanded.
I lifted my gaze, feeling numb as I looked into his eyes, frantic with worry for her. In that moment, I struggled to remember the face of the eighteen-year-old Alexander—the boy who once gave me warmth but now felt like a stranger pushing me into darkness.