Page 142 of Cherry Beats

He’s calm, full of spreadsheets and strategies that will put him on top.

The Devil doesn’t laugh like he’s evil. He isn’t covered in red scales or dressed in leather. He’s probably the owner of twelve ties and fourteen pairs of pleated pants. Everyone thinks he’s charitable and honest. That’s what he wants them to believe.

Or maybe it’s a woman.

Some boring bitch who talks like a baby at thirty years old only to fool people into believing she couldn’t possibly be evil.

Maybe it’s a vixen. A temptress. A sarcastic motherfucker wrapped up to look like an angel.

Perhaps the Devil is someone different to each of us.

If that’s true, you’re mine.

You mess with my head more than anyone ever has. All I can hear is your laugh, baby. Your laugh. It’s everywhere.

How? How the fuck are you capable of being my saviour and punisher all at once.

Poison Cherry.

Presley.

Cherry,

Fuck U2.

Fuck Bono.

Fuck people in the music industry telling me who I should and shouldn’t respect.

Just because someone sits in an ivory tower, it doesn’t mean I have to love them. I wanna love the girl standing at the bottom of that tower. The one getting her hands dirty, trying to keep it clean.

All Bono has ever done is piss me off.

I think it’s his glasses.

Presley.

Cherry,

I need a friend.

A real one.

I need you.

Presley.

I read through them all, one by one. Some sharper than others. Some hating me for holding his thoughts hostage while others spoke of how much he enjoyed fucking me.

“This is wild,” Molly said as she turned over letter after letter in her hands.

Coming to the last one, the envelope read:

You left me in Barcelona yesterday, Cherry.

I swore the first time I said anything to you after you walked away from me, it would be in person, face to face. You’d hear my voice, not see my words because anyone can spin words to make them sound good if they practice enough. Anyone can write on paper that they’re genuine, and everything they put down is the truth.

Not me.

---