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I’ve been shot.
“Private Adam Kent, sir?”
want to put a bullet through Adam Kent’s spine.
Sometimes I wish I could step outside of myself for a while. I want to leave this worn body behind, but my chains are too many, my weights too heavy. This life is all that’s left of me. And I know I won’t be able to meet myself in the mirror for the rest of the day.
“My opinions,” I say to him, quietly this time, “should not so easily break your own. Stand by your convictions. Form clear and logical arguments. Even if I disagree.”
She is a soft, deadly creature. Kind and timid and terrifying.
And even though she hates me, I can’t help but be fascinated by her.
I want so much to be a part of her world. I want to know what it’s like to be in her mind, to feel what she feels. It seems a tremendous weight to carry.
What a beautiful disaster.
All this for a kiss. It’s almost unbearable.
That this girl would know exactly how to shatter me.
SHATTER ME
“To tell you just how tremendously . . . disappointed I am. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.” He sighs. “In a single month you’ve lost two soldiers, couldn’t contain a clinically insane girl, upended an entire sector, and encouraged rebellion among the citizens. And somehow, I’m not surprised at all.”
She put my hand in the fire once. Just to see if it would burn, she said. Just to check if it was a regular hand, she said. I was 6 years old then. I remember because it was my birthday.
I failed. I lost her.
I knew he’d punched his nine-year-old daughter in the mouth and split her lip, fractured her jaw, and broken her two front teeth; and I knew his wife was pregnant.
she lost the child the following morning.
Seamus Fletcher was murdering his family. And I shot him in the forehead because I thought it’d be kinder than ripping him to pieces by hand.
And some days I wonder why I insist on keeping myself alive.
People seldom realize that they tell lies with their lips and truths with their eyes all the time.
And I’m eager for any opportunity to snap Kent’s neck. That traitorous bastard. The idiot who thinks he’s won himself a pretty girl. He has no idea who she is. No idea what she’s about to become.
“If I were to shoot three holes in her head, how would that make you feel?” He stares at me. Watches me. “Disappointed, because you’d have lost your pet project? Or devastated, because you’d have lost the girl you love?”
Swallow the tears back often enough and they’ll start feeling like acid dripping down your throat.
Love is a heartless bastard. I’m driving myself insane.
tick tick tick tick tick it’s almost time for war.
