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Rated: 13+ · Preface · Emotional · #1865616
I may consider making this into a novel of sorts.
You can’t expect me to forget everything that happened last year. You’ve ruined it all: My house, my job, for God sakes, my life.
You can pretend all you want. Feed society your cheap lies about the six hours and twenty-four minutes we were locked together in that room with just a box cutter and our own insanity. Let them feast. Go to your grave with that secret resting heavily on your weak, cold shoulders; but don’t lie to yourself. Don’t lie to me. You can’t let yourself be won over by your own pathetic attempts at returning to normality.
You’re too flawless. You just can't, God damn it, you son of a bitch. I loved you. I created you in my own blood, and you cut me up inside worse than Jack the fucking Ripper. What’s worse is, I fell for you. I fell for those imprudent emotions; I should have never felt emotion. I gave my life to you, and now I'm paying for it.

I thought it was for love.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1865616-Draft-for-a-Novel