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Death at my lover’s hand. The ultimate reward and punishment for our perfection. I couldn’t ask for a more perfect ending.
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 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.
A beautiful and brutal epiphany that could save us, or damn us further, blooms to life right here in the darkness that spawned us.
Nature or nurture. The age-old question of scientists and doctors the world over.
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.
This is the rush. When the pieces align, and every part of the working model snaps together effortlessly. I feel it in my blood. Euphoria.
We’re a shadow of each other, fused to one another through pain and pleasure and a hedonistic illness that rivals even the greatest serial killer teams.
She’s my home. And she’s my sickness.
Demanding peace by enforcing the death penalty for convicted murderers. How ironic.
From the moment I placed my hand in Grayson’s on that roof, everything has been my choice.
Amid our Folie à deux—our madness shared by two—I am the dominant. It has always been me.
We’re as much of a threat to each other as we are each other’s sick salvation.
“We’re a fucked-up kind of inevitability. Not fated. Doomed.”
Not all demons are born to the dark. And not all angels seek the light. Sometimes our circumstance demands a fusion of both. There is no good and evil, only the time spent between both heaven and hell, where we find our peace.
