I’m not good at a lot of things, but hurting people isn’t one of them. I’m good at it, real good. I have a dangerously low apathy for people. The sick part? I enjoy every part of it. I never wanted to be this person, but that's how he raised me. Silas, the man I've ran from since I was a kid, trying to steal his claim on my life he has no right to. I smile at him, licking the blood from my mouth, "Oh, you rot-brained bastard. That's where you are wrong,” I pause as the sound of my handcuffs echo off the ground. Rubbing my wrists, I circle around the pathetic display in front of me. I didn’t want to do this, I was hoping he would come around, maybe we could have helped him get out like I did. Sometimes though, your fear outweighs everything else. “I thought you liked it rough?” I kick his side as hard as I can, his already hitched breathing stopping completely, “I thought you liked the pain?” I pull his face up to mine, and he spits on me. A laugh leaves my throat, unhinged and terrifying. “Look at that!” I drop his head with an audible thud before walking over to the table that had his “toys” on it. “The first time you got me wet.” “Fuck you!” He spits, still laying in the fetal position on the ground, just like the pathetic waste he is. “Oh, baby, you tried, but you were a good snack,” I kick dirt on him, “just not enough to fill me.” I didn’t ask for the throne of violence—but when blood paved the way, I took it. Now every step forward is lined with betrayal, every ally a potential enemy, every night another test of how much I'm willing to sacrifice for her. I’ve always been fighting to keep my head above water, but before I knew it, I sank. I can’t pinpoint when it started—just that I’ve slowly slipped deeper, and somehow, I’m stranded on the ocean floor. "She stirs the waters, unsettling the place I’ve finally settled into,” I said softly, more to myself than to them. “She doesn’t try to understand them—just lets them churn.” “You branded yourself into me and I willingly allow you to own my heart.” He intertwines his fingers with mine, and his grip tightens just a little—like he’s afraid I might slip away again. “I was emotionally yours before I ever touched you.” This isn’t your grandma’s romance. This is sweat-slicked thighs, whispered threats, and hands pinning you to the mattress with whispers of “if you can walk, then I am not done.” It’s fingernails dragging down spines, teeth grazing skin right before it breaks. It’s a knife at the throat and a kiss below the ear. It’s someone whispering “I could kill you… or fuck you senseless. You decide."