no control

• prologue •

I never have believed in good or bad.

Mostly, because I think other people have shit judgment. Why should another person decide for me what is "good" or "bad," "right" or "wrong"?

I also firmly believe that a binary morality would restrict my overall enjoyment I life.

And by that, I mean anything that doesn't annoy the fuck out of me.

A few of my favorites that could be considered immoral by some—

The burn of cheap scotch.

A woman's scream in the throes of pleasure.

Smoke burning away the small sacs in my lungs.

Fear in someone's eyes when I cover myself in their warm blood.

An aloof twinge of apathy at realizing I am just as fucked up as my father.

Whatever they may be, a man is allowed to have his vices. Some people wouldn't agree with mine and, honestly, I don't care. I don't need anyone's approval.

Apathy isn't exactly right, though, as it would suggest I feel nothing.

I feel exactly the opposite of that when I kill. I feel thrilled, delighted, intoxicated. The world is brighter and more colorful.

From a young age, the sight of blood has always intrigued me. The smell of it. The feel of it.

Knowing it is what keeps our bodies alive, and that taking it away from someone removes their existence from this planet.

But then, the high crashes down. I am left alone, covered in someone else's fluids.

My mind returns to the same place every time. I reflect on my childhood, remembering the past and how it has such control over me even now, all these years later.

I still smell the biting bleach. Still feel the sticky carpet floor beneath rubber gloves that went passed my elbows. The nauseating stench of death and cigarettes and mold.

If I dare close my eyes, I'm right back in small motel room—scrubbing blood out of floorboards, oiling guns, counting cash, weighing tiny plastic bags.

But I am not here to reminisce on my dark past. No, this is about my future.

Our future.

My eyes track her every movement, watching her honey-colored hair spill over her shoulders.

She must be so sweet. Her eyes are wide and teeming with light.

One glimpse of her sends a shard of heat through my chest. I get the sensation that I do when my hands are wrapped around someone's throat—or perhaps, this is even better?

The problem is I'll never know unless I have her.

I blink and, in one moment, my dark gray world explodes with warmth and light.

Everything becomes perfectly still, perfectly clear. I receive clarity. Peace.

She is my remedy, my salvation.

A gift so pure, only she can soothe the turbulent seas of my soul.

For every life I have taken, she has blessed another.

She is my resurrection, my benediction.

This world is not worthy of her. These people don't deserve her.

Within her exists a holiness that penetrates all my melancholic darkness.

However, in penetrating my veil of sin and shame, her radiance meets an inevitable demise.

Soon, my angel will know that her greatest mistake was crossing paths with me.

Because while I too will never deserve her, she will be mine.