Nocticadia

by Keri Lake

My social anxiety came courtesy of my mother, who’d always shunned the notion that people were inherently good.

“What separates monsters from good men is only a matter of perspective. In your eyes, I’m a sick fuck for what I’ve done to you. But I, on the other hand, see you as a parasite.”

I had an appreciation for vintage dresses, thanks to my mother, who’d always told me that dresses and skirts were a woman’s rebellion against the world’s ruthless nature. Soft and vulnerable and bold at the same time.

“Allow me to caution you, Miss Vespertine. You are a confused moth dancing about a wild flame. Blind to the incomprehensible danger of your curiosities.”

“I want to know the truth.” “The truth is an intangible luxury of the powerful.”

I wanted to know more about her, who she was, where she came from, how that brilliant mind of hers worked.

“That is the tragedy of women, isn’t it? We deny ourselves beauty for the sake of misleading men.”

“The wealthy possess an insatiable appetite for the rare and priceless. They stare because you’re the only thing worth staring at.”

Calling her beautiful was like calling the sun lukewarm. She’d blazed like the hottest part of a flame in that dress.

Some kisses were said to feel like fireworks. His felt like a slow-drip anesthetic, silently siphoning my senses, until all I could smell, taste, and feel was him.

Over her shoulder, she shot me a smile–one so fucking beautiful, I wanted to frame it. Capture it. Study the alchemy of it. How wonderfully intoxicating one simple expression could be.