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Reckless. Irresponsible. Dirty. Dangerous. Exhilarating. Erotic. Wild. Euphoric. How can one thing be all of those? How can peering into the gutter of my soul feel like I just touched heaven?
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“Don’t fucking act like you don’t like this shit Mia. I know you want someone to dirty you up. I’ll make you fucking filthy. Now, show me.
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Hate can become so ingrained in you that it becomes part of your identity, your psyche. You define yourself with that hatred, so that if it leaves and there is nothing else to replace it, you lose a piece of yourself. I think when you feel anything strong enough it becomes its opposite. I think you can love someone so hard that you hate them. And I think you can hate someone so hard you grow attached. That’s why some people spend their whole lives hating someone they repeatedly invite into their lives: they don’t even know who they are without it.
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My dad used to warn me that the devil doesn’t have horns and a pitchfork, he’ll appear as the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He’ll make you laugh. He’ll make you feel good. You’ll do things you never thought you would, but he’ll tell you it’s okay. And before you know it, you’ve sold your soul to him. That’s how I know Tax is my devil.
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“I’m here because I dream about you, the taste of your pussy, your moans, your cries, the way you beg for me...”
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“Because as soon as I leave after having you, I want you again. And then even when I have that, it’s not enough. When I see another man look at you the way I do, I want to kill him. I want to swallow you. I want to consume you. I want to possess you. I want you.”
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It’s come full circle: the girl who set me on the path of destruction can be my redemption.
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“I’m a harsh person. I say mean things even when I don’t mean to. If another guy lays a hand on you, I’ll break it. I don’t make love, or have sex, I fuck. Sometimes hard. Sometimes brutally. I don’t get upset, I fuck shit up. I don’t play well with others.”
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He’s light and dark, forgiveness and vengeance, beauty and ugliness. He’s all those things. My beautiful savage. And even savages protect their young.
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We are the thing of beauty created from catastrophe. We are the light burning bright, forged from an impossible collection of coincidences.
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