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Hell is empty and all the devils are here. ~William Shakespeare
Perfection. The ultimate assumption that it can be attained if one works hard enough, sacrifices enough, is determined enough to prevail…is the very definition of insanity.
Fear governs our life—that soul-sickening dread of loss. Once we’ve obtained our perfection, anxiety creeps in like the demonic force it is to steal our light.
We are perfection. And we are the fear that lurks beneath it.
Death at my lover’s hand. The ultimate reward and punishment for our perfection. I couldn’t ask for a more perfect ending.
She brings color to my world. I’ve been waiting a lifetime for her without even realizing she was the missing part of me.
I smile at the memory of our first kill. “Your hands still look clean,” I say in a hushed tone. “I want to see them dirty. I want to see them red.”
“The bad things I’m going to do to you…”
London is the music awakening my soul. She’s the reason my heart beats. I’m alive for her—I’m free because of her, and now we’re unstoppable.
The danger lies in whether or not we’ll survive each other. The overbearing desire to consume and consume and consume until we’re sated…but we’ll never be sated. We’re an endless abyss, demanding replete gratification, our disease our enemy. We’re afflicted with an insatiable hunger. “My sick matches your sick,” I whisper to him.
“The truth is, Larry. You’re not worthy. She could snap your mind like a twig without breaking a sweat, then have you groveling at her feet, begging her to do it again, before you slit your own throat just to make the torment end.”
“I’m in love with you, Grayson. I’m not incapable of love…I’ve just never been inspired before now. And I don’t want to be separated from you again.”
Love and obsession are so closely linked, the emotions evoked by obsession easily mistaken for love. And when obsession rules your world, you become a slave to its demands.
“I love the look on your face right now,” Grayson says as he feathers my hair over my shoulder delicately. “Like someone is about to suffer.”
“It feels holy—like an epiphany.” “Epiphany,” he repeats, a calm expression softening the sharp lines of his features. That rare dimple carves his cheek. “You were my epiphany.”
I need an antihero to complete me. A man that looks beneath my surface into the black abyss of my soul and licks his lips, ravenous to devour me.
For me, essentially, the simplest things are the most beautiful.
Building a trap is like courting a lover. It doesn’t have to be all hard frames and mechanics. You have to finesse the design. Nurture it into animation. Romance it with delicate strokes, and graceful strategy. Dance with your lover and she’ll fuck you good and hard.
do make good girls curious. It’s the lure. That
“A submissive partner typically employs manipulative tactics to sway and control the dominant. I suppose that describes us quite accurately.” Her light laugh dances over my skin. “Let’s consider it foreplay,” I say.
Every man falls victim to pride. We’re simple beasts.” I shrug, indifferent. “It’s where we fail.”
Despite my intelligence level, I’m no different than the average man, fearing rejection, loss.
“I can make love to Lydia and fuck London at the same time.”
Well damn!
I heard the safest place to hide is right beneath your enemy in plain sight.
Love is pain. Real love—the one not spewed in poetry—is agony. It tears at your soul, strips you bare, drives you mad and demands the veracity of our existence. Love is madness.
She’s my home. And she’s my sickness.
The truth is, we are a violent species. We will never be peaceful. Earth itself was conceived in a womb of violence. She didn’t sneak into the void of space with a whisper to be populated. She burst into existence with a bang—a violent explosion. We are predisposed to violence because it exists in the very atoms we’re made of. Murder. War. Hitler. Genghis Khan. Alexander the Great. They killed in the thousands, millions. They killed for power. They wielded fear and mercy as a weapon. Evil in its purest form. Civilizations were built on the blood they shed. I’ve heard scholars argue that these
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Fear is more powerful than love.
Someone has to wield that fear, that power. And those who are too weak to stomach the natural order can only hide and judge from their safe corners.
“Manipulation is like foreplay to you.” I chuckle. “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll give you flowers.”
Love is madness.
“You’re still beautiful,” I say, my voice thick with the accent I try to conceal. “My dark angel.”
Fear governs our life—that soul-sickening dread of loss. Once we’ve obtained our perfection, anxiety creeps in like the demonic force it is to steal our light. The truth is a nice dash of salt in a fresh, cavernous wound. Once we’ve tasted the sweetest perfection, savoring it on our tongue, everything that follows can only be bland by comparison. Or worse; a sickly sour. Quickly becoming a rotten bitterness that roils our stomach. The higher we reach, the further we descend immediately afterward. A crushing low. A torrid pit of hell awaits us at the bottom.
Death and freedom are sometimes described as one and the same. Death is a form of freedom—freedom from the prison of life. I aimed to set Grayson free. In the end, I succeeded.
Endings suck. Why shouldn’t they? We’re sad when life ends. We’re disappointed when something good comes to an end. No one wants an ending; we’re designed to want to last forever. So very difficult to bring an end to something brilliant that’s taken a lifetime to build.
All epic love stories have a tragic ending. The classic failure of two great souls is what makes their brief union passionate. Intense. Epic. And everyone enjoys a good love story. Give the audience what it wants, so the story can end without dispute. A finality with a standing ovation.
Not all demons are born to the dark. And not all angels seek the light.
There is no good and evil, only the time spent between both heaven and hell, where we find our peace. And love. Even the vilest of monsters deserve to be loved.
