A Fatal Affair

by A.R. Torre

The oldest love affair in Hollywood is that of an actor with themself. It’s not so much that they love who they are—but they fall for that image on the screen. They fall for the way that the public looks at them. They fall for the story that they’re telling. But the problem is, that story is a lie. The affair is a farce. Eventually, they realize that, and that is when things typically seem to fall apart. —Mayim Place, The Hollywood Report

I’m not the first dead one. At the time that I’m writing this, there have been at least four of us killed.

“I’m saying that Hugh killed all of those women and that I’m not Hugh. I’m Trent.”

“Look, Hugh and I had a shitty childhood. I dealt with it by getting drunk and high. Hugh dealt with it by tracking down parents who make their kids sick and killing them.”

“I love you so much,” she said softly and wrapped her arms around his neck. And she did. She wouldn’t have killed Hugh for them if she didn’t.