Page 4 of Priest and his Anarchist

“Don’t kill me.”

“Tsk tsk…” My fingers catch the back of her head as I bury my face in the crook of her neck.

She is everything I hate.

Because she is everything I created.

I can feel myself waver as she fumbles with my belt buckle. I have two options here. I can kill her, get it over with, and toss her out, or I can fuck her. And then do the above.

My hips thrust into her touch, and I sink my face further into her neck. “Remember that I hate you even when I fuck you.”

Dear Diary

Dear Diary

To

Ugh. I have no idea who I am supposed to address this to. Maybe I should have asked Mom when I saw her. Pretend she’s maternal. It isn’t her fault. She is insane. I wish I was joking…

The tip of my pen taps against the desk. If only Dear Diary didn’t sound so…. So….

Basic.

A loud scream pierces my ears, and I stab the point of the pen into the paper. “Someone tell her to shut the fuck up. I can’t think.” The pen continues its strum. These desks need to be painted. Or sanded. Or something. They have names and numbers carved over them.

Oh! I know! No. I can’t.

Fuck.

This room is basic. With colorless walls, beige bedding, brown artwork, and a single bed.

I pause, pushing myself to my feet. My legs weaken as I try to straighten, but the pain in my back aches the longer I do. I fucking hate this.

There is nothing more to say. I hate everyone, blah blah blah—nothing new. Why do so many people assume that I was going to be like her. Sweet, innocent, cute, innocent. She got everyone’s attention like that.

She got his attention like that. I’ll never have that. And I’m fucking glad.

My mouth curves up in a smirk. “Oh, Darling. How fucking wrong you are…” Laughter leaves me in waves, and every second that passes is like a weight lifted.

But I like them there. I like the heaviness of my feet every morning. I love the way my sins feel like burdens, shackling me to him like a pet.

My smile disappears as I dance my way back to the desk that sits against the window. I have a window. That’s something….

The pen is back between my fingers, beating against the desk. Stupid fucking desk. With the posture of a dancer, I was a ballet girl’s obsession. That never changes. No matter where I end up.

The strands of my hair fall over my shoulder as I press the pen into the page.

Greetings, Darlings.

In honor of yours truly, I’m going to start this off by saying that every person in this place can get fucked.

There we go, Mother. That’s what you wanted to hear, right?

Ha. Probably not. I don’t think that’s what anyone wants to hear. Guess what I did today? Now let me see. If I go back to the first time I woke here, I’d say I don’t know. Because I don’t. Because every day I wake up, I open my curtains, admire the ocean, the sky, the endless water that I imagine falls off onto the end of the world—and before you ask, why yes of course the earth is flat—what are you? Fucking blind.

Where was I…yes. Admiring. Every morning I wake, and I admire the scenery around me. I remember that I am alive, and I am thankful, and if it wasn’t…

Hmmmm.

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