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The screaming flames added a certain je ne sais quoi to the room. An ambiance if you will. They matched my aesthetic.
Yes, my aesthetic was mental illness; no, I didn’t want to talk about it.
My shoulders ached from carrying the weight of being the coolest person at the academy.
The rational part of me gasped with horror while the irrational part of me casually noted that the deceased body fit well with my vibe.
Normalize gaslighting men.
“It will ruin our street cred.” I choked. “What street cred?” “Exactly.”
I wasn’t born to be a trailblazer. I was born to kill men and suffer.
Each day last week I’d woken up and said my morning affirmation: “I am the victim.”
Mentally, I was a slut. Physically, I was terrified of intimacy. Spiritually, I didn’t like men. I was confused.
Scorpius sneered something about me being the problem. Obviously?
“The ones who never sully their souls will only ever cast judgment on those drenched in shadows, because darkness is power. The weak fear what they are not.”
I’d said it before, and I’d say it again: men were deranged, and they should all be shot. On sight. No questions asked.
A man was no woman’s savior. Never had been. Never would be.
Every day, I hated people a little more.
