Page 180 of Sin With Me

He doesn’t.

He has no idea what writhes and cries inside me. The black, inky tar that bleeds through my veins. The flames that burn my soul to embers every time I remember it exists.

The struggle is a chaotic dance of fists and fury, a symphony of violence in the falsely sacred hall. The pews stand as witnesses, their wooden frames behind us bearing silent testament to the clash of wills. The church itself seems to shudder, as if it can barely contain the turmoil within its walls.

I don’t know how long we purge our demons on each other. Maybe seconds, maybe longer. All I know is that it’s not his face I’m seeing as I intact my revenge, as I unleash everything I’ve felt building for so fucking long.

It’s not Marcus’s face that’s bloody and broken.

It’s not his body I’ve riddled with my hatred.

It’s not him at all.

Finally, with a final surge of strength, I drive the asshole backward, his form crashing against the pulpit. He crumples, defeated, his eyes staring blankly before falling shut. My breath comes in ragged gasps, the taste of victory acrid on my tongue.

I want more.

Need more.

It’s not enough.

Burn him down.

My knees bracket his body, keeping him pinned to the ground. His eyes slowly flutter open as he releases a deep groan.

“Wh-what do you wa-want?” he stutters, and pride fills me at the thick blood coating his teeth.

My lighter once again finds my hand and I bring it to his jaw, tracing the cool steel over his heated, marred skin. “Who are you?” I murmur, watching my finger hover over the trigger.

So easy.

It would be so easy.

“Marcus,” he mutters, his cut brow pinching. “I didn’t lie.”

I narrow my eyes as a calm I haven’t felt in so long washes over me as if I really have finally purged my demons.

I haven’t. I know the high is temporary.

“And why are you here, Marcus?”

He licks his lips, his eyes flicking away. I can feel his heart hammering beneath me. Can see is jumping in his neck.

Flick.

The flame roars to life, and I smile.

“Do you know what I love so much about fire, Marcus?” I ask, gliding it just millimeters from his skin. His eyes snap back to mine and he shakes his head, feeling the slight burn from my flame. He freezes and chokes on his next breath.

I laugh.

“Take this lighter, for example,” I continue, tracing his face with it. Not touching, but the threat is there. “The flame is small but mighty. All it takes is one spark, one breath, one gentle, innocent wind and everything disappears, leaving behind the remnants of its existence in unrecognizable ashes.”

It’s the perfect metaphor for my life.

Something so small, so innocent on its own, can become utterly destructive if fed the right fuel.

I am that flame and this place, these people, my ruination.

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