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“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” —Shakespeare, The Tempest
As much as I wished it weren’t so, the bitch had birthed me. Only my mother could subject a child to such a tortuous existence.
With a few more slaps to the face, I channeled toxic masculinity. The key to acting like you had a dick was being a dick.
No matter how I pretended otherwise, I looked just like her. She also was a crazy bitch, and I was self-aware enough to know I, too, was fucked up in the head. She’d bred me in her image.
Truthfully, I didn’t want to be anything anymore. Aspired to nothing. I just wanted to sleep until I felt okay. That was the funny thing about trauma: it didn’t need time to strip you of your personality and plunge you into darkness. It worked quickly. Mercilessly. Didn’t care that you’d spent years cultivating your sense of self and acting a certain way and didn’t give a flying fuck about who you were or what you wanted out of life. It ripped you apart and left nothing. I was jagged shards of what had once been whole.
I preferred my friends with dry sarcasm and inappropriate humor, not whatever the fuck positive energy was radiating off John.
They were the worst type of people in all the realms—men who knew they were hot.
“Please.” A matching teen walked out and stood beside the girl. They were twins. The sight of them side by side triggered a memory that was just out of my grasp. It felt like it was important, but I didn’t know why,
He exerted dominance. I exerted “needs medical help.”
Did every man have anger issues? Well, I knew what my first act as queen would be—mandatory anger management therapy for all men. No exception. Oh my sun god. A brilliant idea struck me. I can banish all men from the fae realm.
There was no man that could complete me. Because I was already complete. Completely fucked up.
“Why?” He asked a final time. I breathed out frost, and it danced across Horace’s colorless skin. “Because dead men can’t kill women.”
