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Life was often mundane in Ambrose. Little things that you used to take for granted became the sort of things you’d think about for weeks on end. You never would’ve thought you could cry from the sheer excitement of being offered half of one of those crumbly granola bars that used to sit in your purse for months only to be tossed in the garbage— but here you were, daydreaming about the granola bar you wished you would’ve savored. A few days ago, Lester passed you the treat behind his back, and you never wanted to kiss someone more than you had at that moment.
You didn’t want to ask for anything, you were just fine and happy to stay suspended in the comfortable limbo you rested in. You’d been through hell, you pulled yourself through the storm and you couldn’t help but feel a little smug that you were still breathing while there were hundreds of victims who hadn’t been so lucky. You felt as if you were stitching yourself back together, putting pieces of yourself right side up again and using duct tape on the bits that didn’t want to stick the way they used to. Every now and again you saw glimpses of the person you used to be, she lingered in the background of your psyche just watching and waiting for her chance to breathe again. The sluggish pulse of your heart finally seemed to understand that you weren't awaiting your execution and each morning you woke up almost giddy to see what the day had in store for you.
With your newfound sense of humanity, the days didn’t pass so quickly anymore. For months, you’d open your eyes in the morning and your consciousness would stay asleep. You’d come back to yourself at random intervals, you’d look at a bruise on your hip, and slowly you’d remember Bo’s iron grip on your flesh as he helped himself to your body. You’d wipe your sweaty forehead on your sleeve and then you’d realize the shirt you wore was much too big and smelled like paraffin wax. The fabric was soft and well-worn, you knew who it belonged to, and wearing it made you feel safe. Through some sort of desperate fight or flight instinct, you adapted and you somehow made yourself a permanent piece of the Sinclairs’ family dynamic. Just as the wax sarcophaguses remained on permanent display, you were kept just the same.
You were lucky, weren’t you?
You were lucky that you often wore finger-shaped bruises on your neck. You were lucky enough that you couldn’t remember the last time you slept alone. With much of the last few months kept underneath a gunked-up memory fog, you weren’t sure when you first decided that you loved them. Inside, you just knew how you felt. The sensation was familiar enough that you almost felt as if you’d never been without it.
Days ago, you heard yourself drool out the words to Bo in the early hours of the morning. The world wasn’t yet awake, with his room washed in grey, you laid your head on his chest and listened to his heart. You could pretend that the world didn’t exist beyond his bedroom, nothing mattered beyond the way his arms tensed around you in his sleep. He always held onto you so tightly, a bruising type of affection that you came to crave. You weren’t sure if he was awake and there was a rare calm on his features. You wanted to kiss his jaw, you wanted to straddle him so that the first thing he’d wake to would be the wet heat of your body.
Before you could stop yourself, you spat out three words as if they’d hatched from your teeth. Your declaration dripped liquid and useless, simply tumbling from your mouth as you didn’t want it anymore and you wanted to burden him with its existence. Immediately, the calm you’d been admiring rotted from his face. His lips twisted into a grimace and he shoved you off of him as if you’d burned him.
Maybe you did. In hindsight, what you said was unfair. Maybe you’d weaponized the only thing you had and you attacked him with it like an ungrateful little bitch.
Your feelings weren’t hurt, but it was beginning to be difficult to distract yourself with things around the house. You missed his bed. The couch was lonely and stiff. Hours ago, you heard the telltale noise of Vincent’s boots seemingly rushing out the door. He was usually so quiet, you wondered what had him in a rush but he wasn’t around in any sense for you to ask for clarification. Any glimpse of Bo had been rare, he came in last night but only for a few moments to grab something, and then he was out the door again. He hadn’t even given you a sidelong glance. You knew he was ignoring you, but you felt you deserved worse than simple silence. You almost wished he’d lash out, if he yelled or if he went so far as to punish you for your behavior, at least you’d have something tangible to obsess over.
Come to think about it, you hadn’t seen Lester either, but you almost assumed that Bo commanded the others to let you stew in your idiocy. If being ignored was your punishment, then you’d supposed you had no choice but to sit and take it like a good girl. It was the least you could do.
You wanted to be good for him. You hoped that if you behaved, if you showed him the good girl you wanted to be, maybe he’d come to love you. Selfishly, you wanted whatever love he was capable of giving you. Even if it hurt, even if it made you cry and scream, you wanted just a glimpse of reciprocation. You convinced yourself he was capable of it, you told yourself again and again that you were alive because you were special. It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just domination and whatever sick thrill he got out of owning you completely. There had to be something else beneath the surface. You were determined to see his buried secrets even if they killed you.
Still, simply sitting and waiting for your punishment to end was getting rather boring. Your mind ran, more awake than ever with your new purpose in life. You daydreamed about your boys, you wondered what they were doing and if they were alright. You were getting to the point where you’d run out of chores, you’d run out of things to keep yourself busy. You taught yourself to play solitaire and you quickly realized it was a boring, stupid game. You looked everywhere for the only sweater you had and it was beginning to drive you past the point of simple annoyance that your sweater had seemingly vanished into thin air.
Bored, lonely, and frustrated made an ugly cocktail. Maybe Bo was rubbing off on you, but you almost wanted to break something because you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Maybe you’d feel better if you destroyed something. Maybe you’d find your sweater after you smashed something to pieces.
You rarely left the house unaccompanied, and usually, you only took the short trek to the garage, hoping to find Bo there. The silence in the house was beginning to poke little holes in your skin. You felt antsy, unable to sit still. The air felt stale, and your irrational thoughts became louder and louder until you were rushing to pull your shoes on and you were out the door, all but running down the driveway.
The old sugar mill where the boys stashed away the cars and other belongings of their victims may as well have been the lost city of Atlantis to you. You knew it existed, you’d heard the Sinclairs mention it from time to time, but you’d never felt any desire to trek there yourself. Much of the town was left unexplored, but the concept of a warehouse stuffed to the brim with junk for you to pick through reminded you of that old folk song about the big rock candy mountain. Desperate to feel anything besides your general anxiety, you wanted to see the place you’d inflated so much in your head. You’d do anything to shut up the starved little whisper that’d been running her mouth ever since you told Bo that you loved him.
His truck wasn’t parked out front of the house, nor was it at the garage. You figured he was on some errand. Working likely. It didn’t matter. He was ignoring you anyhow.
A bubbly, odd sense of excitement battered your insides. You wondered what was in the mill. You imagined rusty junk and some old cars. Irrationally, you had the ridiculous thought that maybe it was nice in there. Untouched by rot and death. It was a sugar mill, wasn’t it? Maybe it really was like the big rock candy mountain from the song. Maybe you’d build yourself a taffy gentleman and he’d come alive like Frosty the Snowman and you’d make gross peppermint babies.
An impulsive cackle left your throat as you finally let yourself into the mill. By the time you walked all the way there, you had toffee grandbabies headed off to college in your head. You expected darkness, but as soon as you walked into the place, lights clicked on one by one. Motion activated maybe? They were an eerie low orange, making it seem as if the mill had some kind of lava heart somewhere amid the big metal contraptions you couldn’t be asked to identify.
Rather than walk into your imagined candy mountain, you walked into the rotting corpse of a giant. After walking down the stairs and down his throat, you finally came upon the rows of cars waiting for people who’d never return. Like maggots, the cars filled up the body cavern of the giant, and you knew they’d soon multiply. More and more would show up. It would never stop until the giant was nothing but memories of wax sculptures, their cars and belongings making his flesh bulge at the seams.
Your mind was in a funny place. You scratched at your arms, feeling small and strange in this monument of death. You felt like a parasite, invading this metal corpse’s insides because you were so hungry that you didn’t care that the other agents of decomposition had already set in. You were so starved for something new, for some new understanding of the man you loved that you broke into a mausoleum. You passed the front row of cars, staring at them all with wide eyes. You were darkly impressed, sickly curious. Were all of these cars evidence of the town’s wax inhabitants? You wondered if their names had any importance to your men. Did they remember each and every victim? You wondered if Lester could tell you whose car belonged to who.
You opened a box, and you looked at all the phones and other junk in there. Somehow, you couldn't force yourself to open the doors of any of the cars. You felt like a grave robber, some sort of demented tourist who went into dark, old places for sick thrills. You couldn't force yourself to open a car that was otherwise left pristine, you didn’t want to be the person to crack open the casket. It felt disrespectful to the victims somehow. At least as sculptures they were kept in perpetual stasis and painted beauty. They were honored in a sick way, made into art. Not everyone got such personal memorials in death. Most people got a hole in the ground and fake tears at a funeral. Touching the last remnants of their humanity in the form of breaking into their cars seemed wrong to you. With permanent smiles, the cars' owners had no way of telling you their thoughts on the matter.
Soon, your shoes met broken glass and you saw a car with two broken windows, one with a big hole through it and the other looking spiderwebbed and nearly caved in. You eyed it curiously. To you, the broken window seemed like an uncorked bottle. Where the other cars were left in perpetual monument, headstones to nameless victims… this grave was already desecrated. You weren’t at fault for reaching your hand inside to unlock the door. It opened easily, you almost expected it to creak and groan as if protesting your exploration. You wondered where the boys kept the keys to all these cars. You wondered if they maybe made a few dollars off of some kind of illegal chop shop every now and then. They didn’t expect to keep this all here forever, did they? Like some sort of Egyptian tomb where you’d take your best belongings to the afterlife?
Your fingers grazed the steering wheel, its pink cover was sun-cracked. It had finger indents that could only come from wear. Leaning over, you opened the glove box and your previous thoughts simply vanished into thin air.
In the glove box, you dug past old napkins and your fingertip grazed the edge of cardboard and plastic packaging. You tossed the napkins to the floor and you found a stash of makeup of all things. You pulled each item out piece by piece, feeling as if you were Indiana Jones and you’d just discovered something previously unknown to mankind. You’d put aside your person for so long, you couldn’t remember the last time you touched something new. You could almost close your eyes and pretend you’d just dipped into the drug store to pick up a prescription and on the way out you got distracted by the makeup section. Part of you wondered why this car’s owner thought they had to hide their silly little purchase.
You’d forgotten what it felt like to do something stupid and self-indulgent such as buying something for yourself. Especially something as dumb as makeup so that you could make yourself feel pretty in the mirror. You tore open packaging with the grace of a wild animal. You scurried out of the driver seat to sit in the passenger side, eager to put it all on.
When you pulled the sun visor down, you nearly jumped at your reflection. You looked tired. You looked into your eyes for a good long time, simply staring at the stranger you saw. In the depths of your eyes, you felt like you could drown in the black pupils. You felt out of body and strange, your fingers twitched as you swiped on silly tinted lip gloss, it was subtly sparkly and though it was something you once might not have had a second thought about, now it might as well have been a Halloween costume. You used your fingers to pat some blush onto your cheeks, and your mind wandered to the way Vincent must paint the wax faces of his sculptures. The waxworks looked more lifelike than you did right now. Prettier too.
You didn’t like the way it all looked so unnatural on your face. Your heart gave an awkward lurch while wondering if Bo might like you like this or if he’d think you looked like a clown. You began to feel like there were crawling insects in your guts, their little legs stabbing into you and their wings making your stomach do flips. You sniffed one damning noise and the sound of your despair threatened to pull you back to where you used to hide. You didn’t want to be afraid anymore. You didn’t want to live every day terrified to wake up because you were sure you’d meet some terrible fate. Swallowing your discomfort, you pulled the wand out of a mascara tube, you watched your lip quiver and you bit it with an actual huff of annoyance.
You wanted to be more like Bo. Fierce, and refusing to hold much of anything back. You wished you were angrier. Maybe then you’d feel less hopeless. You wanted to exude all that power he held about himself and you wanted to bury your soft, weak little heart in the dirt never to be seen again. Maybe you’d feel less lonely, less selfish, and god damned needy if you didn’t have any feelings at all.
Halfway through applying your mascara, you heard a rather heavy metallic thud from upstairs. You waited another few moments, but you heard nothing else. You opened the sunglasses case above the lights on the roof and to your delight, the sunglasses you found in there were big, ugly things decked out with rhinestones. You almost wanted to give them to Vincent to see if he’d put them on one of his waxworks. Examining them in your hands made you giggle. You imagined the shitty waxwork of Elton John you’d once seen in a museum. It looked so awkward that it was the only photo you took from that particular little adventure. Somewhere on your long-lost phone, there was an uncomfortably close zoomed-in photo of shitty wax bodied Elton John. He might’ve looked more realistic if he had the sunglasses in your hands.
Another giggle bubbled past your lips. A manic, impulsive thing. It grew in strength until you were outright laughing to yourself like some awful, annoying animal. The laugh was foreign to you, it wasn’t bright and cute like the sparkly lipgloss on your lips. It was the ugly cackling of a complete nutcase. You wiped tears from your eyes and thinking about your mascara running down your face made more ugly laughter burst its way through your chest. You might’ve died from your inability to fully inflate your lungs but you suddenly became aware of glass cracking on the ground. The sound was entirely too close, you looked in the rearview mirror of the car and you caught movement as if whoever it was noticed you’d seen them and they ducked down low.
Strangely, fear was absent from the wave of confusing emotions crashing through you. Caught in a manic little web, you couldn't find the agency to be afraid. You felt as if you’d left your fear at home and you were only now realizing how empty you felt without it. Before you had time to react, the face of a stranger appeared in the cracked window. You blinked slowly, you almost wondered if you were imagining things and you were finally beginning to lose your mind. You felt frozen, simply stuck to your seat. You could do nothing but gawk. Beyond your spiderwebbed window was a haggard-looking man, hunched over with wild eyes. You discovered your ability to command your muscles and you locked your door just as he tried to jiggle the door handle.
“Help me!” The stranger groaned, his voice sounded broken. He went around to the other side of the car and you scrambled, pushing your back against the door. You were shaking but otherwise unafraid. You felt like you were in some strange dream and you were crawling back inside of yourself to block it all out. You could almost convince yourself that you were seeing things, maybe the stranger was some kind of ghost who haunted this rotting mausoleum.
Bloody knuckles smashed against the shattered driver seat window, making you involuntarily scream. The hole there a little too small for his larger arm to make its way through. Using his elbow, he easily caved in the entire window, and glass sprayed onto the passenger seat. Rather than unlock the door, the stranger lunged for your hair. He grabbed you and you felt as if you were soon to vacate your body, you wanted to run but you were so tired of running.
“Where are the keys?” The stranger spoke slowly as if he assumed you were stupid. When you didn’t respond, his tone changed to that of a growl. “Where are the fucking keys! Y’hear me? Fucking keys!” He yanked your hair as if to drag you over to the driver's seat, his actions betraying the calm in his voice. His body was halfway in the car, broken glass was likely cutting into him.
Your tongue wet your lips and you were met with the candy, watermelon flavor of your lipgloss. You couldn't formulate a word in your head. His grip on your hair hurt and you forced your eyes into focus. The stranger was spitty-mouthed and raving, bleeding and looking more dead than alive. As if something broke inside of you, a rush of adrenaline shot through your veins violently enough that you screamed. With all the strength you could muster, you drove the top of your head into the stranger’s nose, in his shock he released your hair. His fist met your cheek, but his punch didn’t land. His knuckles grazed against you weakly, and your body moved without your mind’s assistance, you unlocked the door and used your feet to kick it out.
The stranger roared, pulling himself out from the broken window, he lunged as if to grab you again. You ran to the back of the car, placing your hands on the trunk while the stranger stood his ground at the hood. You felt like there was fire in your veins and you were clenching your jaw hard enough to ache. Something fierce was building inside of you and you wanted to hurt this person. You didn’t want to just escape or protect yourself, you were tired of running. Tired of feeling so useless, tired of feeling your dumb little heart that got weak and fluttery for things that hurt you. You were angry that this stranger pulled your hair, angry that he wanted to scare you. That pain was for Bo. That fear was for Bo.
“Fucking bitch what’s wrong with you?! Are you with them?!”
You said nothing. You broke into a sprint, your mind kicking into gear. You felt like you’d just now opened your eyes after sleeping for years, you felt like you were going to crawl out of your skin and you’d see an entirely different person laying dead on the ground at your feet. You wanted to find a weapon. Anything you could use. You wanted to show this stranger that he should be afraid of you too.
Of course, the stranger followed you as you ran. You knew what it was like to simply act without reason because you could see death at the corners of your eyes. You were sure that the stranger wasn’t thinking, he was desperate and hurt and you were stronger than him. This wasn’t a contest. You were willing to kill this runaway because he shouldn’t be god damned alive anyhow. He shouldn’t have grabbed you. He shouldn’t be upright and fucking walking.
You made a harsh left and just as you did- you were clotheslined by another stranger you hadn’t accounted for. The air was knocked out of your lungs, your surprised scream came out only as a choked gasp. You threw a punch, your arms and legs fighting on your own accord. Fists met flesh, but the stranger atop you was too heavy. You didn’t hear a word he was saying above the blood rushing in your ears. You wanted to spit at him, you wanted to claw his eyes out. You were fucking angry with the fear these people were forcing inside of you and you wriggled in his tackle, your shoes dragging on the dirty floor.
The stranger took a harsh inhale, he muttered half of an unintelligible word before his sentence was cut short in a spray of bone and blood. You were too shocked to scream, you simply went limp when the stranger’s full weight fell atop you. You sputtered, tasting blood on your lips. A second shot rang out and then a third shortly after that. The world seemed to close in at the seams, crumpling into a compacted ball of bloody garbage. You took a breath and your lungs seemed to rattle as if you’d forgotten to breathe in the last few minutes of your awakening. Revulsion hadn’t yet sunk in, you knew there was a corpse atop you covering you in blood, but your heart began to pick up speed, excited and giddy with the idea that Bo saved you. You struggled with the corpse, doing your best to roll it off you.
Familiar boots came into your line of sight and you were so glad to see him that you felt hot tears mixing with the blood on your face. Effortlessly, he rolled the corpse off of you and you scrambled to your feet. Strong arms wrapped around you and you felt his lips press to the top of your head, uncaring about whatever blood and gore might’ve splattered you. Holding the back of your neck, he took a long, deep breath. Neither of you spoke for a long few moments. Hesitantly, you wrapped your arms around him when you noticed he was shaking with what you assumed was unbridled fury.
“You hurt?” Bo spoke into your hair, his voice eerily calm.
You shook your head no before you found your voice again. “I’m okay.”
You felt him nod above you. Bo released you and he set his rifle atop a nearby car’s hood. The pace of his breathing was quick, you almost wanted to ask him if he was hurt but you didn’t want to upset him if he was. With his arms free, he pulled you into a crushing sort of hug, forcing you solidly against his chest. You heard yourself sniffle and holding the next one back made you hiccup.
“Yeah yeah, I know sweetheart. Made me make a fuckin’ mess huh?” He chuckled, but there was an edge to his voice that you didn’t like.
“Can we go home?” You whispered, nuzzling your face into his shoulder as you tried your best to swallow everything you felt.
“What? And leave the work to someone else? Y’made the mess darlin’, doesn’t seem fair to make someone else fix it.”
You wanted to understand the edge in his tone. His words almost sounded forced. You weren’t sure what to do other than apologize.
Before you could start blubbering, you managed a weak apology. “I didn’t know there were people on the loose. I-I was bored and I shouldn’t have left the house.”
Taking his arms away from you, Bo stepped back. He used a thumb to wipe the tears on your cheeks. When his hand came away bloody, he pulled a rag from his back pocket and used it to wipe your face for you.
“The fuck did you put on your face, shit ain’t comin’ off.” He rubbed your cheeks over and over with the rag, making you laugh.
“I found some makeup.” You couldn’t help but find an ounce of entertainment in the fact that your mascara had run. Licking your lips, you still tasted watermelon.
You felt as if you could hear Bo’s eye roll. “Mm, lookin’ real pretty while getting caught up with tourists huh? Y’tryin to run away on me now?”
Quickly, you shook your head no, which made Bo scoff. He gathered saliva in his throat and spat it on the floor as if he was doing his best to wear the tired old tough guy mask. “Makin’ messes, runnin’ away from home, and now y’wanna play princess? Could’ve been hurt too and all you can do is cry about it.” As he spoke, his voice grew darker. Angrier. “Made me waste these sons of bitches too.”
“I-I’m sorry.” You couldn’t help but stammer. You opened your mouth to say something else, but Bo stole your words by crashing his lips to yours with a swift and sudden attack. It was less of a kiss and more of an act of violence. You could feel him beneath the desperate way he claimed your lips. He was all tongue and teeth, violent and angry, but a sour taste of something else lingered in his kiss.
Fear. It tasted like fear.
When he pulled away, you felt as if your bones had been replaced with useless spaghetti noodles and your insides were going to leak out of your ears. You blinked, completely dazed and you walked on jellied legs, with your hand in his as he led you outside. Outside in the setting sun, Bo looked you up and down as if to make sure you really weren’t hurt. Indecision crossed his face, he looked like he was trying to figure out what to do with you. You knew his expressions well enough, you liked the lines in his forehead and all the tiny things you could read about his face.
“Y’know, I don’t think I’m sorry ‘s gonna cut it, Darlin,” He sighed, sounding almost disappointed with his own decision as he loaded you into his truck. Apparently, his previous words about what to do with your mess were just hot air. He closed the door for you and came around the other side, you wanted to slide across the seat and snuggle up to him but you were wary of his mood. Usually, you could read him pretty well but right now you felt like you found a page of who he was that was written in an entirely different language.
The ride back home was silent, an awkward distance wedged between you both. Bo’s entire demeanor seemed subdued, his jaw was tense. You noticed his shirt was covered in dark stains, contrasting the fresh blood that hadn’t yet settled in the fabric. You wondered if you should be afraid, but you remembered that you’d left the concept somewhere and you'd forgotten where you put it. Maybe he was going to kill you, maybe you weren’t worth the trouble. Somehow, you were fine with it. You were too tired to fight anymore. Too worn down.
Halfway back to the house, Bo slammed on his brakes. He hadn’t been going very fast, but you still couldn’t help but jolt upright, your posture forced you to suck in a breath. His fist connected with the center of the steering wheel, making the horn blare and your stupid, embarrassing sniffle came back. You were sorry for upsetting him. You were sorry for what happened. You didn’t know how to apologize in a way that mattered because you’d already made such a mess of things.
After giving the horn another good punch, Bo turned to you. His face was livid. Anger made his eyes shake in his head. A piece of a memory came back to you. The last time you saw him look like this, you were sure you were about to die. You supposed you were lucky that you got to see a repeat performance of something that most people only got to see once.
“Don’t be poking your nose in places you don’t fuckin belong. God fucking damn it. What if I was a minute later huh? Y’trying to piss me off with one last hurrah and getting yourself killed? That it?”
“No! I didn’t know you were-” You took a breath, “I didn’t know anything! No one told me to stay home today.” You found the courage to raise your voice, yelling out of pure frustration. “I was trying to stay out of your hair, give you some space. I just wanted to take a walk!”
Bo took a long, deep breath. “Yeah. Well, look what the fuck that got us.” The truck engine roared as Bo forced it to accelerate too quickly from idling. You knew he treated this truck like it was some kind of baby animal, you figured the only thing he could love in this entire universe might be the damned thing but right now you couldn’t help but notice he was being rough with it. The drive back home was short, he parked close to the porch and Bo slammed his car door as he exited the vehicle.
You got out and Bo grabbed your shoulder to all but shove you inside the house, causing you to stumble on your feet. Before you made two steps inside, Bo kicked the door shut behind him.
“Get down.” Bo spat, his voice gravelly.
“Down where?” You asked, genuinely confused.
“On your fuckin knees, where else? Get the fuck down.”
You sank down eagerly, hoping that Bo might tell you how you were expected to apologize. You looked up at him expectantly, and he shook his head.
“Lower.”
Your brows furrowed but you did your best to comply. Placing your hands on the ground, you lowered with your head down. If he wanted you to grovel, you’d do it. You just wanted this awful day to be over.
“You’re sorry huh?”
“I’m s-” You tried to speak, but Bo lifted a leg and he planted the sole of his boot square between your shoulder blades. Pressing you to the floor. Absently, you were glad that you mopped just a day ago. His weight above you didn’t feel crushing or oppressive. You were sure he could make you hurt if he wanted to.
“I’m sorry.” You spoke clearly, hoping to be rewarded for your compliance.
“Y’keep sayin’ that but I’m not convinced babygirl. Y’see, from my end of things. Seems to me you were getting dolled up and pretty so you could play the damsel in distress and hope those shitheads might take you away from here.” Bo paused, taking a shaking breath. “That it, huh? Yer gonna leave me after all this? Acting like a fucking whore, bet you’d saddle up to anyone huh? Better than me I guess.” He said bitterly. “I ain't all that fuckin great am I? Throw me to the dogs, ruin my fucking work and everything we’re doing here. All because you’re pissed at me? I see how it is.”
His words hurt, but beneath the raw meaning of them, you heard the almost impulsive pattern of his speech. You heard the steely edge of his wrath and you could still taste the sour taste of his fear in your mouth. You couldn’t help but quake beneath his boot, you shook your head no and his shoe pressed harder, adding more weight to the degradation. You wished you had the time to dismantle everything he just admitted to you. In his own way, you felt as if this was the most open he’d ever been with you. There was vulnerability creeping at the edges of his words. There was pain there. You weren’t sure he even knew what it was to hurt.
“Selfish fucking slut.” From the violence in his tone, you almost expected him to kick you in the head. “You said you fucking loved me.”
You felt your weak little heart fracture to pieces. Before you could stop yourself from repeating the words he so hated, you offered him an encore.
“I love you.” You spoke to the ground as Bo stepped harder, pushing you down further.
Unlike your first admission, your words were strong. Unapologetic. You said them again just to test the weight of them. You twisted your head sideways to press your lips to the side of the boot not currently crushing you to the floor. Your lips left an iridescent stain atop brown leather. “I love you so much it makes me fucking angry.” You kissed his boot again, noticing the creases and the way the leather tightened around his ankle. “I hate you and I love you and I’m sorry you don’t believe me.”
Lost to yourself, all you could do was repeat the words as you ruined his shoe with your lipgloss. The kiss marks were getting less and less visible as the makeup transferred to the leather. You curled your fingers against the floor, your nails digging into the wood. You almost wanted to slap him. You wanted to fight but all you could do was kiss his damned boot and mumble out that you loved him as if you’d forgotten how to say anything else.
His boot lifted from your back, and you raised as if to get up. Above you, Bo clicked his tongue.
“Uh-uh. ‘M not sure if I believe you yet. Better do the other one too.” Replacing sharp steel at the edge of his tone was a heavier, hungrier whisper. You hadn’t an ounce of indignation toward his order. You lowered once more and you kissed the vamp of his boot. You felt like you were getting dirt in your mouth. Beyond the scent of greasy leather was the unmistakable scent of blood. In a sick way, you liked the idea of prettying up his boots with kisses and forced affection. He could stomp on all the skulls he wanted to but you knew how difficult it was to get glitter out of anything. You were marking him with your affection, staining him with it. You told him again and again that you loved him, your lips covering every available inch of leather.
You wanted to force affection into him from the ground up. Like the cars in the mill, you wanted to shove every unwanted piece of your soft stupid feelings into him until he was bulging at the seams. You wanted to pack it into him like gauze in a wound, you wanted it to hurt. You wanted it to scar. You wanted everyone who looked at him to know that he was infected and sick with the way you loved him. You didn’t want to love him but you did. If he never intended to love you back, you hoped every kiss you gifted his boots with would weigh him down and drown him in the next muddy puddle he stepped in. The only thing you had to arm yourself with was the way you felt for him and if he didn’t like it— if he wanted to call you a stupid whore or whatever other names he could think of, that was just fine by you if he’d walk around in lipgloss covered boots.
If all he was was rage and violence, then all you wanted to be was full of love sharp enough to pierce right through his shitty dead heart. You could both be awful. You could both consume each other. If he never wanted anything soft, then you were just fine to make your kisses hurt. You’d spread like hives over his skin and he’d be forced to feel you all day beneath his clothes. You hoped they itched and burned. If he killed you, you hoped he’d never ever be able to look at himself without remembering the way you loved him. You wanted to shove your hand in his chest and take what you wanted so badly. You wanted to take a bite out of him and spit the chunks on the ground. You hated him for the way he turned your love into something acrid and sour.
Your lips met his laces, and you realized you’d run out of leather. You sat up without being commanded and you looked up to see Bo looking a little dazed. His eyes were half-lidded, his adam’s apple bobbed and he reached to run his fingers through your hair, petting you like a fucking dog. You leaned into it, your stupid, weak little heart decided you’d take whatever affection he’d give you.
“Sweetheart…” He whispered, his tone heavy. You sat up and you noted the hard outline of his clothed erection. It twitched, trapped against his thigh and Bo shuddered above you. A surge of pride licked through you, his vulnerability tasted like iron and dirt in your mouth, yet it was the best thing you ever tasted. Your eyes fluttered shut and you leaned to mouth over his cock just like you’d kissed his boots. Part of you thought bitterly that he better not kill you because you’d come back from the dead if anyone else ever touched what you wanted to think was yours. Bo might’ve put on a show by telling you that you were acting like a slut for strangers and you wanted to run away, but he saw what happened in the mill. He knew you weren’t trying to run. His words meant nothing besides that he was baring his wounds to you raw and bloody. He didn’t want you to leave and you wondered if he knew that you’d chase him down if he ever thought to do something of the same.
You teased his cock until you could feel him pulsing beneath the thick fabric of his pants. You felt powerful. You knew that even if you did meet your death here, there’d be no replacing you. As a kid, you never had sugary cereals. Your cupboard was home to shitty bran flakes and oatmeal. The first time you had a bowl of fruity pebbles you knew you could never go back to the healthy stuff. There was no undoing his attachment to you, you’d never been allowed to leave marks on him but you could feel how deeply you rattled him. You won and you didn’t care that your victory cost so much. One fucking taste of your heart and Bo was an addict, you knew he’d consume you until you had nothing left and selfishly you wanted him to gorge himself. You wanted him sick and starved and desperate. You wanted him to never feel whole again when you inevitably ran out of heart to give him.
Maybe he’d be angry with you. Maybe angry enough to hurt you. You couldn’t imagine how satisfying it would feel to meet his knife, to meet the barrel of his gun as he ended you with the shaking hands of an addict.
“Thank you for saving me, I was so scared.” You lied. “He grabbed my hair and I froze-”
“Shh, babygirl. S’all over now. Y’dont gotta worry about them anymore.” He schmoozed, eating up your words. You wondered how big his ego could get, you imagined it swiping its claws at the bars of where he kept it. You dangled praise in front of the creature and it had no choice but to devour your offerings. You’d get it nice and fucking conditioned to come to you for food.
“I know, You’ll keep me safe won’t you Daddy?” You kissed over the length of his shaft and you wondered how much patience he had in him. “You’re so good to me.” You kissed him, “I love you so much.” You kissed him again. “I’m so lucky to have you.”
Looking up through your lashes, you were smug to see Bo looking downright drunk. You hated how handsome he could look while looking so disheveled. Without being told to, you stood up. You stood on your tiptoes to press a shy kiss to his lips, playing pretend that you didn’t own him completely. You couldn’t remember the first time you kissed him. You couldn’t imagine that he’d make the move himself, there had to have been a moment of weakness where he allowed such a thing, and now kissing him came as easy as breathing. You pulled away from his lips and you kissed over his jaw and lower, meeting his throat with a light graze of your teeth.
“Fucking brat, you’re supposed to be asking for my damned forgiveness.” He mumbled and you hummed in response. Your fingers found his shirt buttons and you undid them one by one, his undershirt was darkened with sweat, and a brown streak of oxidized blood decorated the white fabric.
“You work so hard don’t you Daddy? That why you haven't been home?” Sliding your hands beneath the fabric of his shirt, you grazed your nails down his chest.
“Mmhm. Big group too. Wasn’t all that much trouble till one of ‘em got loose. Fucker played dead too.”
You jut your lower lip out in sympathy. It should’ve been sickening to hear his flat-out admission over executing a group of people, but it gave you a little kiss of exhilaration at the base of your spine. You couldn’t imagine what it felt like to wear the sensation like armor. Killing must make him feel invincible. If you could get just a taste of what it felt like to truly cut ties with your fear, you were sure you’d be a monster just the same as he was. You pulled his undershirt from the neat tuck he kept it in and you felt his stomach jump as your fingers grazed the bare flesh of his abdomen. Standing as you were, it was easy to press another kiss to his throat. You couldn’t help yourself and you teased the tip of your tongue back up to his jaw, tasting his sweat.
You were a little obsessed with the way he smelled. It was a heady, drowning thing that kept your brain in that happy, safe little sense of limbo where you didn’t need to think. You found it difficult to remember that you wanted to be upset with him. You’d forgotten how addicted you were to him in the few days he left you to your lonesome. Realizing this made your insides twist and turn. You were caught between hating yourself and hating him.
“I missed you,” You whispered, weakness found its own voice and it erupted from you haughty with its escape.
Before Bo could belittle you for your admission, you teased your fingertips lower, following the line of hair that disappeared into his pants. His hands tensed at his sides and you wondered why he wasn’t touching you. Usually, he was so handsy. You weren’t sure what to make of his newfound restraint. Part of you wished that you could peel back his forehead so you could tap into his brain. You wanted to know what he was thinking, was he still mad at you? Was he ever mad at you in the first place? Your fingers found his belt and you worked it loose with a practiced hand.
“You forgive me yet?” You did your best to hold back the amusement in your tone. You knew he wanted you meek, he needed that sense of control over you.
Bo seemed to snap back into himself. He scoffed, shaking his head,
“Dunno, y’think you deserve it, sweetheart?”
“No. Guess not.” Little by little you were finding it difficult to hold back your sass. You were the sort of person who always wanted to stick your fingers in the blades of a fan, wondering if it might hurt. Whatever horror you went through apparently wasn’t enough to teach you better survival skills.
Thankfully, whatever apprehension Bo had seemed to die at its conception. You wondered if he might extend to you the same kindness. You wanted him to destroy you and everything that bloomed inside of you like weeds pushing through sidewalk cracks. Maybe he’d love you if he’d turned your insides to rot and all you were was a pretty husk of a person, a permanent smile affixed to wax-covered features. Your thoughts cut short as he crowded you until your back was pushed back against the wall. You’d barely made it a few feet inside, and Bo didn’t seem to care about the possibility that anyone could walk in. Rough hands all but tore at your pants, you weren’t allowed to step out of them. Your shirt and bra were given the same treatment, he threw them toward the front door, leaving you bare. With your pants and underwear bunched embarrassingly at your ankles, Bo guided you to face the wall. He pushed the side of your head, crushing your cheek to the rough texture of the wall and you had to contort so you could avoid an old frame hanging there.
He pushed your head harder just to make you hiss in discomfort. When you did, he chuckled behind you. The action was almost rehearsed. You felt as if he was trying to remind you of your place, reminding you that he could hurt you if he wanted to. There was a sense of desperation in it. His belt buckle jingled and the noise of his zipper coming undone made you shift on your feet, you awkwardly maneuvered one foot out from your pants and you widened your stance as best you could. You felt unsteady. You felt like you were just barely keeping your head above water.
“Y’got blood in your hair,” Bo spoke more to himself than to you. Before you could so much as breathe, his palm connected with your ass with a harsh spank. The noise had you jolting, leaning more of your weight on your cheek pressed to the wall. You lamely placed your hands against the surface, fingers curling as if you could dig your nails into it for a handhold. When you didn’t whimper or cry out, Bo did it again, spanking you harder. Whatever bill you owed him was paid with the whimper that croaked half alive from your throat. He answered your cry with a giddy breath, awarding you by spreading your cheeks apart and plunging two fingers into your core.
The sudden intrusion had you releasing a noise halfway between a moan and a grunt. You momentarily stood on your tiptoes as if your body was trying to escape his touch. You were wet enough for it, eager enough for it, but you still felt as if you might unravel and completely lose yourself in the stifling cocoon that you wanted to escape. He felt right like this, inside of you, taking from you. You heard yourself moan as he thrust forward, roughly beginning to fuck you on his fingers. You imagined his face, wearing that predator’s smile that stretched over him like a well-worn glove. You imagined his tongue licking over his teeth as he pulled you apart with his fingers. Molding you, making you into something pretty for him. He was an artist in his own way. Different from Vincent but an artist all the same.
Everything he gave you was self-serving, meant for his entertainment and not for your pleasure. Still, you felt a tightness in your core, twisting and pulling. You missed him and his touch felt so good. In your thoughts, you had a little cupboard where you hid your secret fantasies. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine him kissing you because he wanted to, not because he wanted to bite your tongue and taste your blood. You could imagine him petting your hair and whispering to you that you were the best thing that ever happened to him. A miserable whimper left you as the scenario you tried to hide in began to taste acrid, like milk left to rot in the sun. It hurt and you hated why thoughts like those hurt.
Mistaking your noise for pleasure, Bo leaned over you to grab a handful of your hair, forcing your head back. To keep your balance, you re-adjusted your hands. He laughed behind you and the noise made your head blossom with rose-tinted pain. You didn’t mind that he was laughing at you, that he likely thought you were a stupid little slut moaning like a whore because you liked to be treated like one.
“Y’gonna beg?”
For what? You wondered. To come? For his forgiveness? For him to fuck you roughly into this wall, hard enough that you’d ache for days? You felt stupid because you were sure that anything you asked for would be the wrong thing. Frustrated tears pricked at your eyes and your throat worked but you couldn't manipulate your tongue into formulating a single word. Your defiance earned you a swift retreat of his fingers and you yelped like a kicked fucking dog. You wanted to come, you wanted a blissful few moments where you didn’t have to think about the way that the man you loved was slowly, slowly killing you.
“Make it hurt.” You croaked out, your words sounding watery.
A bolt of coherency made you suck a harsh breath in through your nose. A floorboard creaked with Bo’s shifting weight and you wondered if he was going to simply shove you away from him again. Every time you stupidly offered him something meaningful, it always was thrown right back in your face. Instead, you were awarded a harsh spank. A stray tear leaked down your face from the sheer relief of the sting. Your fingers tensed against the wall and Bo spanked you again and again. He went so far as to deliver a harsh swat to your pussy, making you scream.
“Shut up,” The tone of Bo’s voice was all edge, the blade of a rusting hunting knife. Well-loved but mistreated. He spanked you again and you pulled a hand away from the wall to wipe your face, cleaning the drool that was beginning to spill from the corner of your lips. You were crying now, unable to help it. It wasn’t a pretty thing. Your nose was running, your face felt hot and you felt as if you weren't taking in enough air. Your lungs burned.
“Crying like you hate it but you’re fucking soaked. Either y’like it or you don’t babygirl. Stop foolin’ now.”
“I’m sorry,” You managed to grit out, you rose on your tiptoes, arching your back prettily. Displaying yourself for him. Begging for more.
“Thank you.” You babbled after each spank. When he slapped your pussy again, you took it with a watery shout of thanks. Your knees were trembling, you felt like you were soon to collapse. Giving you a break, his hand found your hair. Rather than pulling from the root, he pulled midway down to ensure the yank would sting. You hissed and Bo stepped back, pulling you away from the wall by your hair. He half led, half dragged you to the couch where he used a knee to push you down. You landed with an undignified oof and you looked up to see Bo glowering above you. The look on his face was terrifying, his eyes were wild. You wondered if you pushed too far, if you should be afraid but you were so tired of thinking. So tired of being afraid.
“Spread. Show me that cunt.”
Your legs trembled, you spread your legs and you shivered at the filthy way he licked his lips. Weakly, you used your fingers to spread the lips of your pussy. You clenched on nothing, feeling empty and half alive. You needed him, you needed him. You deliriously believed he could fix you by plugging you with his cock. Just for a little while, you’d feel whole. His pants were undone but his cock was still trapped in his underwear, it looked like he’d adjusted himself at one point. A dark stain decorated the grey fabric, he was so hard you felt as if you could see every vein and swell of him beneath his underwear. You were beyond need, you were hungry for him. Hungry enough that it became something violent.
The little taste of what you imagined went on in his head made your heart give a weak little flutter. You loved him. You loved him and you were so grateful he indulged you like this. You were so lucky.
“Look at you.” Bo clicked his tongue, “Fuck, this is what you get like when you watch someone die? Feels good don’t it?”
He didn’t give you a chance to answer, Bo crawled atop you and he grabbed your thigh roughly. Hard enough to bruise. You loved the way he hurt you. His weight above you felt so fucking right. Bracing himself on his palm on the arm of the couch, and with one foot on the floor, Bo leaned to press his forehead to yours. You thought he was going to kiss you and you leaned up expectantly. The action earned you a slap to the face, your head whipped to the side in complete shock and your mouth hung open. Too dazed to whimper, the stars in your eyes turned to smoke and honey. Thick and syrupy pain that made your clit throb, made your empty fucking cunt clench on nothing as she choked and starved between your legs.
Taking advantage of your open mouth, Bo spat on your cheek. His saliva hit you at the corner of your lips and it dripped into your mouth. You blinked several times, trying to clear your head from the fog he seemed to want to drown you in.
“More.” You stuck your tongue out, looking up at him with the drunken smile of an alcoholic. He rolled his eyes, but his hips surged into yours, grinding himself against your naked pussy. The fabric of his jeans was rough, you winced at the teeth of his zipper. Your waiting tongue was given another slimy present, and you let it mix with your drool before you swallowed. You wanted him coating your mouth. You wanted every inch of your tired corpse to be washed with him. Your back arched and Bo leaned down to sink his teeth into the side of your neck. He didn’t break the skin, but you could feel the protest of your flesh. You wanted him to make you bleed. You wanted the sickening rip and tear.
You knocked his hat off of him and Bo barely complained. You tangled your fingers in his hair while desperately hoping you could just melt into him. You wanted to wear his skin, you wished he might whimper and cry for you. His breathing was ragged and you wondered how far his self-restraint was pulled. You imagined it thinning to the point of fragility. Like the elasticity of your skin protested his teeth, you wondered if he was just there, sitting right on the cusp of blood and violence. He sat up and finally, finally freed his cock from its confines. The position was somewhat cramped, your hips twitched while he gave himself a few strokes, pumping his length while quirking an eyebrow at you as if daring you to beg for it. You knew he loved the attention, loved the way you were desperate for him.
You expected him to draw things out, the word easy wasn’t one that Bo was familiar with. He lifted your thigh and rested it over his, leaving your other leg crushed at an awkward angle, your foot bent uncomfortably against the back of the couch. Momentarily, you thought you must look ugly like this. Contorted into an ugly little ball of flesh and awkward limbs. As soon as the heated skin of his cock met the engorged and needy swell of your clit, a fresh wave of tears welled up in your eyes. Just the weight of his shaft against your dripping cunt was almost enough to push you over the edge. You wiggled your hips, trying to force him inside of you and Bo grinned as if he was waiting for you to make a mistake. He lifted you enough that you were practically folded in half and when he finally pressed the head of himself inside of you, you were outright sobbing. The angle had him fucking down into you. The stretch made the world around you begin to tint pink and hazy. You were bodiless, nothing but sensation. You felt as if your eyes were rolling back into your head, and Bo spat in your face as if to rescue you from the brink of unconsciousness.
There was no sense of build up, Bo set a bruising, unpatterned pace. It wasn’t sex, you felt as if he was using your body as a masturbatory toy. You loved the invasion. He mumbled something, but the word was sputtered to incoherency. A snarl left his throat as if he was frustrated with his inability to berate you right now. He barely pulled out, simply grinding and pushing himself into you. You felt as if you could taste him at the back of your throat. You felt as if every nerve you had was relinquishing itself to him. You wanted to crack open your ribs and show him your heart. You wanted him to take it. He was so deep inside of you that each thrust came with an abrupt pinch of pain that built and built. Irrationally, you imagined his cockhead grazing the mouth of your womb. Invading your deepest places, taking the last bits of secrecy that you still had. A bubbling moan spilled from you as you imagined him fucking a baby into you. Finally giving you some semblance of love in the form of offspring. You’d love it so much that the world as it was now had no definition of what it was to love.
Your orgasm was a violent thing. Sudden and choking. You felt as if your lungs were to burst, there was a pinched feeling at the base of your spine that grew until you were screaming. Your pussy gushed as you came around his cock, your inner walls clamping like a vice as you ran with your fantasy of holding a little baby with hair and eyes just like his. Bo would never be much of a father, but he could give you something to love if he wouldn’t love you himself. You wouldn’t ask him for a single thing. You were so lonely that you nearly wanted to cry as you came down from your high, post-orgasm clarity reminding you that your little dream was just a fantasy.
Of course, the next hard stroke of his hips had you promptly forgetting about whatever had you upset. You grunted, your leg waving uselessly in the air and Bo shoved his fingers in your mouth. He grabbed your bottom row of teeth, fingers digging beneath your tongue, his thumb pressing hard beneath your chin. He used your skull as leverage as he pounded into you, making you drool and choke as he rearranged your insides.
“God, shut the fuck up.” Bo snapped, making you gag on his fingers reflexively. You couldn’t help yourself. The noises he pulled from you were inhuman. Your throat felt ragged, and each dry swallow hurt. You knew it was a losing game. You couldn’t shut yourself up no matter how hard you tried. You were a crying, squealing fucktoy and part of you hoped you’d be punished for it.
A series of violent thrusts pushed you up on the cushions of the couch, the top of your head began to thud into the unforgiving arm of the couch. Your tits heaved with your breath, bouncing from the force of his thrusts. You felt a little silly while contorted, and crushed into the couch. Before you knew what was happening, your stomach tensed and you came again with a warbling, confused whimper. Your body spasmed, and little ripples of pleasure rolled over you again and again, making the hair on your arms stand up on end.
“Christ, we’re gonna need a new god damned couch. Yer downright fuckin’ pissing on it.”
Your eyes bugged, you couldn’t defend yourself like this. His fingers in your mouth stole your words from you. You couldn’t even apologize. You looked up with watery eyes but you found anger absent from his face. His neck was corded and he looked like he was moments from losing himself. His degradation did nothing to ruin your pleasure. You knew that the wet gush of your cum was only stroking his go into an out of control blazing fire. You released a mewling little whimper, your body was twitchy beneath him. The ragged breaths you took were making your head feel like it encased a swarm of flies, little buzzing sensations raked your thoughts as your coherence faded and faded.
Abruptly, Bo pulled out of you and shoved your legs away from himself. His movements were an undignified scramble as he crawled over you, his knee closing in at your ribs near painfully as he frantically jerked himself off inches from your face. You couldn’t help but writhe, trapped beneath his weight. You pouted with the sudden sensation of emptiness, you wanted him to come inside of you but distantly you remembered this was supposed to be some mockery of a punishment.
You watched his fist slide up and down over the meat of his cock, his flesh tinged an angry red. A slick noise followed his self-pleasure. He was still fully clothed while you were naked with your pants and underwear hanging off one of your ankles. The first spurt of his cum was followed by a low, rumbling groan. It streaked your face, making you instinctually flinch and close your eyes. You scrunched your nose up as if that would somehow protect you from the following thick ropes of cum that splattered your features. You loved the way he sounded, the concentration on his features was so endearing. He wore pleasure well. You were giddy that he found such bliss while using your body. Pent up as he was, he managed to get a few streaks in your hair, a few dribbles spilled down your throat to drip into the valley of your breasts.
Where he was usually so closed off when it came to you, you felt like the prettiest girl in the world while covered in his cum. You barely cared that you must have mascara running down your face. Saliva, snot, tears, and cum caked over your features like makeup foundation that you didn’t have. Whatever blush you applied to yourself back in the mill must’ve been cried off by now. Still, while aching and used, feeling short of breath and with cum gluing one of your eyes shut— You felt pretty. You felt so perfect and special. You felt valued if not loved.
Bo looked at you with a brand new reverence. You’d call it adoration, but you couldn’t help but feel like a fancy beetle, pinned beneath a pane of glass. Its wings pierced and forced into place. You got the feeling that you were something to be kept like a trinket or a trophy. Put on a shelf and otherwise ignored. He used a thumb to push some of his cum into your mouth and you took it with a moan, more than happy to swallow what he offered. You loved his taste, your throat was scratchy and you were grateful that he thought to remedy it with his cum that he so graciously gifted you with.
“Good girl.” He breathed, quiet as if he didn’t have enough in him to project the words any further than a few inches from his mouth.
You could come again from his praise alone. You felt lightheaded and completely out of body, you were in a floaty little headspace where the world was made of rainbows and stars. You let him feed you his cum as if he was petting you and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. Your heart was so swollen with him, you felt like it was barely pumping blood throughout your body. As if it’d forgotten that it was primarily yours before it was his. Your tongue felt sticky, you licked over your teeth and you wiped at your eyes as you did your best to collect whatever pieces of composure that you could find scattered about your body.
He got off of you, and the freedom of his weight gave you the momentary agency to take a deep, long breath. You could feel the rose-tinted haze in your head beginning to lift and you grabbed onto it, your nails piercing into wispy film as you begged it not to leave. You didn’t want to be thrust back into reality. You wanted to stay right here, feeling pretty, feeling useful.
Bo wiped his forehead with his sleeve, he tucked himself back into his pants and put himself back into working order. You were smug to think that anybody who looked at him for more than a second would know that he hadn’t been kneeling at church or anything like that. He was too sweaty, his pupils still too blown for him to look inconspicuous. His lips were reddened from his own teeth.
To your surprise, he sat you up and adjusted your body so he could sit back down on the couch. He put an arm around your back, and he nuzzled the bridge of his nose into your hair before he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
“I love you.” You tried again, letting go of your rose-colored fantasy in one fatal moment. You were telling him more truth than you could ever know. You loved him down to the deepest fiber of your being, he was so irreversibly a part of who you were. The girl who survived his knife wasn’t the same person you always were, but the person you were now was head over heels, obsessed with him enough that it made you feel sick.
“I know babygirl.” He whispered into your hair, his arm tensing around you. You leaned to kiss his jaw and you pondered the taste of his skin. Beneath the musk and everything you’d come to know about his taste, you could taste a hint of something else. Something you were sure you couldn’t name in fear of breaking your own heart. Bo’s jaw stiffened, you felt his adam’s apple bob and you took his moment of weakness as an excuse to crawl into his lap. You picked up his other arm and put it around yourself as you burrowed into his chest.
Sitting like this, you felt more like yourself. Less of his toy. More like a person. You breathed him in and he smelled like home. Bo’s arms tightened around you until he was crushing you to his chest. If you concentrated, you could feel his breaths, you could hear the thundering pace of his heart.
You wondered if he could hear yours too.