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The human stories interwoven with the tragedy are erased. Written over. Forgotten.
Now I’m not just angry. No. I’m indescribably, uncontrollably, ire-fucking-futably furious.
I’ve recently become acquainted with pure agony.
“Is my dirty fantasy distracting you from our imminent doom?”
They can hate me. But we share a common enemy.
Ripley Bennet has drilled her way into my bone marrow, infiltrated my blood cells and set up shop like a parasitic infection.
Would his death appease her? If I find a sharp instrument to carve out his organs with, will I earn her forgiveness?
To him, love is degradation. Power. Control.
there’s something comforting about his capacity for violence.
I don’t think Xander knows how to communicate without threatening death in one way or another.
This Xander wants to hold my still-beating heart in his palm, just so he can put it back behind my ribcage with the memory of his touch.
I want to scream at the top of my lungs. Beg him. Plead with him. Use his fucking pocketknife to carve out my heart and offer it to him on a silver platter if it means he’ll relent.
I don’t know if I need to fight, fuck or flee. I’m longing for the oblivion of sedatives.
Oh, fucking perfect. He’s pathetic.
Die falling or die kneeling.
I wanted her tears, freshly spilled and bottled like nectar.
But the connections we create can be stronger than shared DNA.
The rich take from the poor all the livelong day, and we don’t kick up a fuss. Why shouldn’t it work in reverse?
“I know your soul, Rip. I know your voice. Your scent. Your breathing patterns. Your intonations. I have the incredible privilege of seeing intimate, invisible, even unconscious details about you. I’ll never have to share that privilege.”
“Priory Lane. Harrowdean. On the run. Dead in the ground. I don’t care where we are. You will stay right by our sides. Where. You. Fucking. Belong.”
Soul-destroying grief boils into smouldering rage.
We’re wilfully ignorant as a species.
Love like ours isn’t fit for public consumption.
The fact that she’s willing to let herself fall apart in front of me is a privilege I’ll never take for granted.
When you’re drowning, it’s easy to justify pushing other heads beneath the water so you can stay afloat.
“Their pain guaranteed my freedom,”
“Well, it’s a constant battle between your inner child who’s scared and just wants to feel safe… your inner teenager who’s angry and wants justice… and your current self. The one who just wants peace.”
It’s funny how even when your own life is hanging by a thread, the world still turns. Oblivious and undisturbed.
I’ve come to realise it’s a misconception that bad people don’t feel pain or regret. Oftentimes, those who’ve been forced to make the most awful decisions do so from a place of immense pain.
“I’ll simply befriend the flannel-wearing nerd and convince him to let me use his tech. That or I’ll find a new home for my pocketknife in his gut.”
Xander fucks exactly how he loves. Intensely and all at once.
If they’re dead… I would know, right? I’d feel it in my bones. Gravity would shift, and the world would dim into everlasting night.
“My chest hurts again,” he murmurs. “I think I love you.”
