Little Deaths

by Nenia Campbell

She is a woman dogged by the snapping jaws of her demons, and there is a part of her that’s tempted to lie down and give in.

The dark emotion swirling through him was too heavy for grief, too black for anger. A perfect storm of regret and loss and something that felt curiously like the end of a curse. There was nothing to stop him from coming back and taking what he wanted.

Donni knew she was capable of very stupid things but she did not consider herself a stupid woman.

Me too, Donni. Me too.

“They say life imitates art, but in your case, that’s simply not true. Art—my art—is just a poor substitute for what I really want: you.”

It was foolish to bring him back, she thought. It’s like inviting a vampire into the house.

As warped as she suspected he was, he might relish the idea of fucking her in his father’s bed.

“That I’d rather have you hating me than not have you at all.”

He especially liked her hands, and the way she moved them while she talked. It was unbelievable that she hadn’t become bigger than she was. Her unusually expressive features made it hard to look away from any scene she was in. Talking with her could make you feel like the only man in the world. It had for him.

Oh he is down bad. 🥹

He glanced at her small shelf of romance novels, wondering if she still believed in hearts and flowers, or if, like him, her ideals had been crumpled into a red mess of pulp and shards.

“I’m not a jealous lover. If you want me to leave you cradled in the strong arms of the law, I will.”

🤣🤣🤣

It just felt as if she had a void in her life sometimes that she spent all of her time moving carefully around.

She wondered if her lipstick was still smeared all over him. That thought shouldn’t have thrilled her, but it did a little.

Desire was a tenacious seed; once sown, it kept finding ways to grow back, no matter how brutally reaped.

Women in the public eye didn’t get the luxury of showing emotions; it branded them as temperamental, difficult to work with. Some men claimed to like it when women were angry—when they got emotional, even—but what they really liked was emotional impotence: half-baked emotions, not fully-formed, that expended themselves before they became inconvenient, most frequently after sex.

People talk about sexism like it’s a single killing blow, but it’s actually a series of little deaths. Women are dying and men are the sickness.”

“Tell me what I should be,” he said, with stark intensity. “And I’ll be that.”

When you try to save yourself and fail—it fucking hurts. Sometimes . . . it’s just easier . . . to do nothing.”

There was no need for smoke and mirrors with a man who enjoyed her at her worst.

“I’m going to hurt you.” “Then do it,” he growled. “Hurt me. Fuck me. Just don’t send me away.”

I don’t care if you see yourself as broken. I’ve been chasing your reflection in a ruin of jagged shards for the last ten years. It’s you I want—flaws and all. No facsimiles. No illusions. Just real flesh-and-blood you.”