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“I love you too, Lana Myers,” he says so softly. And in that moment, I’m completely his. There’s no revenge; there are no deaths staining my hands. I’m just a girl in love with a man who’s destined to hate me when he learns the truth. And it’s devastatingly tragic; more so than any Shakespearian play ever was.
If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? —William Shakespeare
Romantics always believe in revenge, because romantics love harder, suffer loss more painfully, and hold onto a grudge that has shattered their hearts. Their hearts are of the greatest importance, above all else—body, soul, or mind.
“Voltaire said, ‘Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.’
“Sheesh! We’re in the middle of Fucking Madhouse Hollow, on the edge of the woods, and you give a girl a heart attack?! Not cool, Bennett. Not fucking cool,” says the redheaded girl who knowingly drove the killer into town.
It’s everything I need and more. He’s everything I wish I could be. A hero. A hero loved by a monster.
