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You took my wings as you painted me the sky
He returned late as usual, smelling of blood, bleach, and acid, with bits of Eduard still stuck in his hair.
Grace was usually knocked out cold by then or lying awake in the bathtub, stuck in a book. He was too caught up in his own shit, dealing with stuff that would've crushed her if he let her in on even a bit of what he was doing every day, all to get them both out of this mess. He thought she understood that and had her priorities straight. But he never got women.
He could already feel her coldness when he lay in bed next to her. Not dead yet, but she might as well have been. She could smell the
blood on him, and that repulsed her even more, on top of what she had discovered that day. He kissed her shoulder; she flinched. He asked what's wrong; she bit her tongue and started weeping.
All he wanted was a fuck, or at least a moment to sleep. He asked her to stop sobbing; she told him to go to hell. How could he care for that? He was just dismembering bodies moments ago, tossing them into barrels of acid. She told him that his whore came looking for him. And he knew he fucked up. But he denied it, and the more he did, the harder she sobbed.
He lost it after she called him a monster.
"All you do is fucking cry."
"Do you know how much I do for you?"
"How can you not see that?!"
"Do you even love me?!"
"If not for me, you'd still be taking cartel dick. Maybe that's all you're fucking good for."
He tore her heart out word by word, and then he left for the living room to snort more coke. He went into full rage and started flipping furniture, screaming in his native language, she got scared to the bone, ran into the bathroom and locked herself inside. That was it. He p
ushed her too far.
Posted 7/18/2025, 1:00 AM