Page 5 of Lovely Violent Things

Want—pure, unadulterated hunger—will drive us to the brink to possess, by any means, that which we cannot live without.

The person who wants with a ravenous appetite, who cannot be satiated, will stop at nothing to realize their aspiration.

All of which I starved for.

As the desolate stretch of highway passes in a dreary blur outside the tinted SUV window, I recline my head against the headrest in the backseat, letting the cheap bourbon I downed at Pal’s Tavern pound my veins in relentless fury on its way out of my system.

I deserve far worse.

Pensively, I rub my thumb over the blood-stained bandage wrapping my left palm. My silver thumb ring snags on the edge of the adhesive. The distinct feel of the raised cuts beneath the coarse cotton brings her to the forefront of my thoughts.

Today, for the very first time since my little dreamy muse crashed my life, I told a lie to Halen.

With the trickle of the stream washing over rocks beneath the rickety bridge, her scent still infused in my pores from the night before, and the lingering taste of her sweetness testing my control, I gazed into her wide, hazel eyes and told Halen I’d never thought of taking a life before her.

Men have a bad habit of placing blame on others for our weaknesses. Especially those who have the power to wound us. I’d like to say it’s a simple defense mechanism, but really, we’re all just privileged bastards.

Her rejection sliced deeper than any blade to my skin. I weaponized my anger, letting the lie fall from my mouth. All the while, admonishing her for refusing to accept the truth, for refusing to accept us—when my own past is far more horrifying than anything my little sexy sprite could conjure.

In some cultures, the taking of one’s own life is judged harsher than murder.

Before my muse tore into my mind and soul and fucking body with a monstrous, decimating force, I was on the verge of my own self-sacrifice.

But it wasn’t my violence that summoned my moon goddess from the cosmos.

It was hers.

My tastebuds came alive. The dull hue of the world illuminated into blinding colors I’d never witnessed before. I had no idea how dead I was until she showed me what it felt like to be alive.

Now, even breathing without her arousing scent is a torturous struggle, the air stale and insipid.

She is the Apollo to my Dionysus.

My other half.

And although the force of the Apollonian and Dionysian coming into conjunction may clash in the most destructive storm, their union is what fosters creative genius and harmony.

Her calm surrender to logic quiets the raging storm of fury and madness which plagues my mind. By the same design, my chaotic frenzy awakens her heartsick soul with maddening vigor.

One cannot exist without the other.

I cannot exist without her.

And whether she admits the truth or not, she cannot exist without me.

To have tasted divinity—to have knelt before my goddess and indulged like a feral glutton, to have buried myself so deep inside her, only to have lost her…

That is my great, yawning abyss.

That is staring into the void of indifference and apathy and feeling your soul wither into a hollow husk. That torment stirs a wicked desperation in a man to which he will forge to the darkest, most depraved bounds of hell to recapture.

There are no limits.

For her, I will kill without remorse. I will lap blood and mutilate in a haze of ecstasy until I’m gorged, and then I will demand more.

And as these soul-rending thoughts mangle my head, I’m hyper-fixated on only one course:

Making Halen St. James realize our inevitability.

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