Skin of a Sinner

by Avina St. Graves

She tries to make me talk about my feelings. She also likes to bring me snacks. I know it’s a bribe because I’ll do anything for a Pop-Tart.

“I’d say rest in peace, but I hope you never find it.”

“You fucked with my girl.” Roman chuckles darkly, glancing at me before saying, “And you should never fuck with my girl.”

“You lied to me.” I explicitly asked her this morning, “Did you take your inhaler?” Do you know what her response was? A couple of flutters of her eyelashes and a bashful, “Mmhmm.” Typical. I’m not falling for that shit next time.

“Don’t worry. If you break, I’ll put you back together. If you run, I’m running right behind you. If you burn, I’ll burn with you.”

“You will never be alone again. I swear on my life. Wherever you go, I’ll be right there. We’ll always find each other. I’m not going anywhere. It’s a promise. We’re forever, Princess, and nothing will ever come between us. Do you understand?”

Beauty isn’t just something you put on or become blessed with from genetics. It’s a feeling that doesn’t need a mirror or a photo for proof or validation. And Mickey makes me feel beautiful, even on days when I’m disgusted with myself.

“What about when you fed me undercooked chicken, and I was out with food poisoning for a week?” I say pointedly. He’s silent for one beat, then two. “But did you die?”

“When will you realize there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you?”

“Hit me, scream at me, fucking shoot me if it makes you feel better—at least I know that feeling. But you don’t keep your feelings in, and you sure as fuck don’t lie to me. Got it?”

“And for God’s sake, Bella, if you’re going to run, at least take some money and the IDs with you. This isn’t amateur hour.”