ψψψ
After a stretch of horrific bullying at the hands of the wealthy and cruel Cassian Ambrose, Camille Beaumont enters her junior year hoping to keep her head down and power through at her illustrious and isolated New England boarding school. But a...
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-Cassius' POV:
ψψψ
Imagine having been born as I was: not just a sinner, but a monster, a baby and a devourer and a dead man wrapped into one. That's not true-I was born a normal child, with a red face, and wrinkled skin. I slept well, and ate often. And three months after I was born, to the date, I woke up in the night screaming-not a baby cry, but a devil cry (so I was told). And when I opened my eyes again, they'd become damned. So if you look at my baby pictures, you'll see a little boy with dark brown eyes, unlike mine. If you ask my mother, she'll tell you it's my sister. But it's not. Please, know that it's not.
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Imagine living all your life craving, hating, festering, and loving. Imagine waiting like an insect for the day you could crawl out of the dark. Imagine striking a deal. Imagine selling your mortal soul. Imagine it no more because I would. I would, I would, I would, but if only I could be satisfied. That's my curse-I can never be satisfied. I walk the earth like a drunk man in search of his next drink. I am dying of thirst in a desert.
But then there's she. And my curse gets a little worse.
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"That, son, is what you are." I didn't understand it when I was first told it. But it became evident soon. Everywhere she appeared, it was more clear. I stopped praying. I didn't need God's help anymore. What did God have to do with it! There was nothing divine about this. Nothing divine about what I-
Ψ
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There is no way in this world to describe how I feel about it. But I'll try. When it began, it was black bitterness. She was the cause of all my life's problems. And then I looked at myself, looked at her, softened, and decided that I had to have her. There are things that a person has to have to be a person. Food. Water. Clothes. Money. A family. A calling. For some, there are more of these things for others. For me, for people like me (beings, things like me), some of those objects are people.
For me, it is her.
I want her. I have to have her. I have to.
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My mother says just take, my father says just take; my father took, my grandfather took, and I, too, want to take. I'm hungry. It's a hunger, it's a generational appetite and there are no gods.
(Maybe there are, but not gods that'll stop me.)
I'm told to take and I want to take and I look at her and I want to take. She will like it if I take. If I take from her as my father took from my mother, as my grandfather took my grandmother, as his father before him, his father before him.
It's a generational hunger.
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I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her.
I hate her.
No I don't-it will kill me not to have her.
I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her.
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If only. I'm thirsty. If only. I'm dying.
Don't tempt me. Don't reject me. Don't spurn me.
Aren't I a person too? Don't I deserve to live?
What have I done to hurt you? Oh? Oh-but I can make up for it. I can spoil you for the rest of your life. I can cure you of want. No, I can make you want me too.
