She makes me more dangerous than I already am.
If she pointed at a random person and told me to shoot, I’d pull the trigger with no questions asked. Yet I can’t stand to breathe the same air as her. I’ve even pictured myself killing her once or twice and regretted the mental images instantly.
Videos upon videos, images upon images haunt me, yet I can never delete them.
I fucking hate myself for opening the file. I usually have it locked and securely hidden from prying eyes. It’s torturous, the way it makes me feel.
I’ve struggled with emotions since I was a kid. I felt alive for the first time when I had Stacey, and now everything within me is black.
I’m dead inside.
“There,” I say, admiring the four crimson letters with a smile. “Now you’ll never forget who I am.”
“You are Death,” he says in a low, slurred mumble. “Your time will come. You and your whore.”
I throw my hands out to the side, exasperated. “She’s not my fucking whore.” I lean my elbows on my knees. “Infact, she isn’t a whore at all.
She’s the girl I watch, the girl I obsess over until I feel like I’m going fucking insane. I gave her my heart when I was a teenager, and do you know what she did? She shattered it. She’s a venomous snake. Wait. Do you understand a word I’m saying, Crawley?
Barry knows everything. I had to tell him, or he would’ve thought I was just stalking some innocent girl. He sends reports to me when I haven’t the time to watch her. He thinks, as a twenty-one-year-old, I should find another obsession that doesn’t drive me to murder.
Am I extreme? Yes. But for my own fucking sanity, I need to know what she’s doing. Is that weird? To hate her yet need to know what she’s
doing? Even though she’s a snake?
A snake who still belongs to me.
“Please leave. I’ll get an Uber to Luciella later.”
“Look at me.”
I shake my head.
Kade stands in the doorway, tapping the top of the frame. I flinch as he goes to step forward, and he freezes.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Freckles. Sometimes people need to change to survive.”
🖤
She takes my hand under the blanket.
In any other circumstance, I’d pull away from that sort of physical touch and picture the person in a million pieces. I’d get pains in my hands.
But with Stacey, I return the sentiment by lacing our fingers.
She giggles, and I feel every muscle in my body go warm and taut with how fucking much I want to hear her giggle again.
I’m my own worst enemy.
I hate her, but I can’t live without knowing what she’s doing.
I lied when I said I’d leave her alone. She’s feeding into my obsession, and it’s only going to get worse. This is only the beginning.
-Kade
I flinch a little when her palm slides up my chest, the muscles pulling taut under her gentle touch. She tries to draw back like she did that night in the tent, and my free hand captures her wrist to hold her there.
Touch is repulsive and unnecessary. I barely hug my own mother. A person openly wanting to touch and cuddle and feel makes my skin crawl.
I’ve always been this way, but when Stacey touches me, even if it’s just a hand on my chest or shoulder, it feels different.
Not repulsive at all. But it’s still foreign to me. Unknown. Yet I want to explore it more. I press her palm to my chest, and I don’t let it go.
She must think I’m a weirdo, but I like her touch.
I’m not a gentleman who can offer sentiments and roses. Not anymore. I’m a creation of being used and abused, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. It’s my life now; I just need to live it.
-Kade
I’m a walking, talking contradiction.
That version of myself doesn’t exist now. I don’t get anxiety around her because she’s pretty and I have no idea what to do with her. No, I reckon if I touched her now, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from strangling her to death.
The anchor who broke me.
Fucking ridiculous.
My phone rings, pulling me out of the dream I wish I could erase from my memory. As much as reliving that night makes me want to smash
everything in the room, it keeps me grounded when I’m in positions like I am now.
My mind always goes back to her when I lose control, blacking out, and when my body betrays me. Memories play out like fucking nightmares,
mocking me for what we had and what she destroyed.
She’s so warm and comfortable. No bad thoughts are running rampant in my mind, telling me to get away from her.
Everything is calm. Everything is quiet. Everything is okay.
“I don’t want to go near you,” he replies, lowering his forehead to mine, his dilating eyes showing his lie. “I can’t stand you.”
🖤
Music will play, the genre completely dependent on my mood. I’ll tell myself that anxiety and unnecessary voices don’t exist. That they’re nothing but void thoughts desperate to destroy my calm. As each chord strikes, the black tendrils around my heart will shrivel away.
There was a time when one person was able to make me ignore that side of myself. I helped him with his own darkness, and he made me feel alive, sustaining me with tender touches and words, stolen kisses and nights in his bed when no one knew. I was happy.
I thought I was safe. I thought I was free.
Until I wasn’t.
Remember when they said,
"A burnt child loves the fire"?
They didn’t tell you this—
how desperate he is for it,
to burn just enough
and become ashes.
I love dancing in the dark.
When I’m surrounded by carnage, which is often, it’s peaceful – an escape. I enjoy mentally vanishing from existence, even if it’s only for a
moment.
The famous Tobias Mitchell, American psychopath. The insane killer who took over every news channel in the world. He’s labelled as ruthlessand unpredictable. Dangerous. A threat to life. Yet, when we visit the institution, he’s a caring dad who wants to know everything that’s going on in our lives. He tries to be involved as much as he can and looks at my mum like she’s the only woman in the world, full of complete adoration.
Even though he tried to kill her.
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