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My New Year’s resolutions are simple: Get my sister back from Jeremiah. Don’t fuck anyone that’s kin to me. And maybe kill my dad if I’m feeling ambitious.
“Why did you run, Ella Christian?” I ask her softly, skimming the flat side of the blade down to her throat, pale even in the darkness around us. At this, she chokes out a laugh. “Are you kidding?” There’s amusement and a hint of fear in her words. “Have you seen yourself?” She laughs again, and it sounds childish. Unsettling. “I know a devil when I see one.” “And just how many devils have you met?” I ask her, leaning down close, the blade still against her neck. I hear her swallow. “Not many,” she admits, “but every time I look in the mirror, there’s one staring back at me.”
I guess when you’re raised with monsters, those with the dullest teeth seem the most angelic.
That’s part of our movie. The foolish girl thinking she can cleanse the sins of the devil himself. But maybe she can.
I want to barricade myself in a closet, get high as fuck, maybe snort a line. Disappear into my head and let my own monsters eat me alive. I want to feel something bad.
“No,” she finally says, and I exhale, although I’m not sure it’s with relief. “No, Maverick. I don’t want to marry you. You have too many demons.” She laughs quietly. “I don’t want to see them all.”
Romantic comedies never have devils in them. It’s why they’re so easy for me to watch. I don’t get attached to the good guys.
What happened to him to bring him to me? Is it like what happened to me? Are devils made? Was I born empty? Was he?
“Hate me. Hurt me. Heal me,” he says again. “Well, come on, baby. Play God with me.”
I don’t wanna go anywhere you’re not going, even if you take me straight to hell.
Mayhem. A crime that causes a disfiguring, permanent injury. It can include loss of a limb. An eye. Brain damage.
“There’s no difference between love and hate, Mavy. The opposite of those is indifference,
“Memento mori.” Remember death.
Sometimes you leave the things you love, to keep them safe from just how strong your love can be. Because you love them enough to save them from yourself. Keep Ella safe. Love, Your Angel
He’s not any less damaged than when we first met, and neither am I. It’s not even that our broken pieces fit well together; they don’t. It’s that we’re willing to step in the glass, bleed a little for each other; that’s what matters. That’s what our love is. Broken, bloody, and perfect.
