Loneliness made fools out of all of them.
And thus the heart will break,yet beokenly live on.
The hunter did not hate the wolf. The wolf did not hate the sheep. But violence felt inevitable between them.
Perhaps, I thought, this was they way of world.
It would hunt you and kill you just for being who you are.
Believing something does not make it true.
Something had to give.
Something had to snap.
Something had to break.
"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."
Caz van der Waal was an enigma, an unknown variable in her equation, an unsolved mystery, and she had always loved and hated those in equal measure.
Seeing her shaking against the door had almost made him want to turn her around and see the emotion in her eyes, see something there other than disdain and aloofness, the untouchable air she wrapped around her like a cloak, threatening to freeze anyone who got too close.
He'd tried not to. He had really, really fucking tried. But there she had been, shaking against the door, whimpering in a way he'd never expected her to, shedding outer skin to show him the stunning insides,
It had gone to his blood like shot of psychedelic, rushing to his head, his heart.
It was intoxicating.
She was intoxicating.
And all he'd wanted to do had been to capture it, capture her terror, her transformation, her transcendence.
He was an unknown, his motives unclear, his reactions uncertain. For all she knew, he could be directly involved in some of the deaths or know something about them; he could be killing people on the side for a special shade of crimson paint; or he could be involved in none of it. And for some reason, her twisted brain found the mystery of him even more attractive, like the opposite of a moth drawn to a flame, drawn to his darkness she could feel calling to hers.
"Regardless of what you do on the outside add love, law, or medication the inherent traits someone is born with don't go away. Take away the external factors and people revert back to who they are born as."
She saw his eyes flare up as she spoke in her icy tone, daring him to refute her.
"But it can be contained, can it not?"
The riveting eyes, the rumbling voice, the rugged face, the entire combination was making her heart pound for some reason as he continued staring at her with a glance she recognized, having seen it on herself a few times. It was the look of mentally splitting something open, looking at the insides, and unearthing everything to be unearthed about it. He looked at her like that.
It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.
The weight of another gaze made her shift her focus to the man who had occupied her thoughts so annoyingly since she'd bumped into him that night at the beach. The one who drew over dead bodies and threatened people with pencils and held her up in the woods. It sounded ridiculous even in her own head, would have been ridiculous, had it been anyone else but him. He had an air around him, something chaotic, unpredictable, that made her feel off-center.
Caz. The Psycho Painter.
because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself
Hope' is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops at all-
-Emily Dickinson
"Are you scared?"
The words moved over the top of her head.
No, she wasn't scared. She was angry.
"Do you accost girls like this often?" she asked nonchalantly.
He chuckled. "Only the ones that poorly stalk me after mildly threatening me the night before."
Salem rolled her eyes and squirmed, trying to get out of his hold. "Can you let me go?"
His arm stayed solid. "Can I? Yes. Will I? Depends. Why were you following me?"
His words, in that voice that she was realizing had some kind of influence on her, gave her pause. Why did she follow him? It was absurd and she didn't do absurd things.
"I got curious."
Damn curiosity.
Anything that diverted their attention from their own hollow lives and offered distraction was welcomed.
It was certainly a body. She just had to verify if it was animal or human.
Her heart began to pound with each step, the lump taking the shape of a human body, and something giddy filled her veins. She knew it was not the natural reaction to witnessing something like this. She had been told that more than enough times through the two decades she'd been on this earth. It still tore at her sometimes, what she felt and what she was supposed to feel, the dichotomy sending her own moral compass spinning. But the closer she got to the corpse, the more the compass stilled, and for the moment, alone in the night and away from social expectations of who she should be and should have been, she let herself feel exactly what she felt.
Excitement.
I felt a strange delight in causing my decay.
Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.
In all chaos there's a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.
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