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She had her own mattress up in the little hideaway
Life felt like hell because we expected it to feel like heaven. The quote I read years ago went something like that, but I never understood it. When you’re in the thick all your life, living in ways you eventually figure out no one else is, you learn to sleep well in heat and eat fire. Until one day it’s all you need.
People assumed I behaved strictly on impulse, when actually, it required quite a bit of strategy to be this fucked up.
Mind-fucks were sometimes more fun than actual fucking.
“Because pain in the body quiets the pain in the head. It feels good, like a kill switch for your brain.
“Because I can’t feel guilt, sadness, anger, or shame as strongly as I can feel fear anymore, and there’s no stronger fear than when I scare myself.” He brushed a tear off my face, and I jerked away. “I never know quite what I’ll do,” he finished.
In fact, he was kind of an angel at the end. An angel with really black bat wings. Psycho.
“I don’t give a fuck if you’re alone,” he said. “Just as long as I have you to myself.”
How sometimes you have to get the worst to feel the best.
“Would you have forgiven me . . .” he asked, “if I’d gone over the side of the tree house with you that day?”
And I hated that I’d missed him. I hated that so fucking much.
I fucking loved her.
And nothing felt so good as to hold nearly everything I cared most about in the world right here.
