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Love shouldn’t fucking hurt. It shouldn’t pull you to pieces. It shouldn’t shred you. It shouldn’t fucking ruin you. When I said that love was dangerous, I meant it was dangerous forme.
I’m wired differently.
When I loveit hurts. It really fucking hurts.
It’s a physical pain. An all-consuming sickness. A wildheartness. A soul-searing blindness.
And I have to keep it in check because right now I’m literally seconds away from barging into the room Pen’s sleeping in and taking her, just like I wanted to do that night at Grim’s club. I wanted her so bad that I’d convinced myself that she meant nothing, that I fucking hated her, because even though hating passionately hurts me too, it has nothing on how loving someone makes me feel. I pushed her away, made her feel like shit and convinced myself that what I felt wasn’t real.
It was safer that way. For the both of us.
But now my emotions are becoming untethered. Now that I’ve held her in my arms and danced with her, she has become every damn thing, and Ican’tsee clearly. This savage fucking monster within me is ready to tear up the world to keep her safe. I’m going to kill every last motherfucker who’s threatened her and fucking smile whilst I do it.
I. Will. Gut. Them.
Pushing off the mirror, I step backwards. My chest is heaving with exertion as though I’ve run a marathon when all I’ve done is kept myself in this damn room and away from her. Striding over to the panel on the wall, I tap on the screen that’s connected to the internal sound system and scroll through the selection of songs. Unsurprisingly, the Freed brothers have a state-of-the-art music system with speakers in every room that’s voice activated. The whole house is rigged up with tech way beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. Even the fucking blinds open and close on command. Last week Hudson had a space in the gym cleared for me so I could dance. He saw very quickly that was what I needed to release my stress and to get control of my emotions.
Maybe in a different life I could’ve been like him. Selfless.Good.
He’s a good man whilst I’m…not.
Pressing my forearm against the wall, I scroll through the selection of songs and chooseSilenceby Marshmello, featuring Khalid, then walk into the center of the space. My skin is already covered in a sheen of sweat, my t-shirt sticking to my chest and back. A heavy feeling of claustrophobia surrounds me, and I have a desperate need to be free from the heaviness. Stripping off my clothes and shoes, I stand in the middle of the space wearing just my boxer shorts, but the temperate air of the gym does nothing to cool my blood. Only dancing will take the edge off this feeling. It will help me release some of the pent-up emotion, get it under some semblance of control.
Rolling my head on my shoulders, I narrow my eyes at my reflection. “Play music.”
The opening piano chords begin to sound out around the gym, and I grasp my head in my hands, gripping the strands of my hair, reveling in the sting to my scalp. Jerking my torso forward, I bend at my waist, stepping into the movement, then stumble. As though I can’t hold myself upright.
But I have to keep moving.
Being the way I am means I can’t linger in a moment, a mood, a feeling. It’s too much to take otherwise, too fucking overwhelming. I subdue, damp down, suppress.
Like Khalid sings, I would rather be a lover than someone who is constantly fighting.
Fighting these emotions.
Fighting to keep my boys safe.
Fighting to keep away from Tiny.
Fighting to be normal.
Fuck knows that’s all I’ve ever wanted. To be able to love like a normal person.
I didn’t. I couldn’t.
So I danced instead, or at least I did until I began to kill.
Drawing my fists up to my chin, I punch at the air like a boxer in a ring, battling an invisible enemy. I move my body in staccato beats, my left foot rising then dropping, my right leg kicking out, dragging me forward. I lash out with my arms, my legs, as the cyclone within me twists up and expands, threatening to break free of my rib cage. It wants to detonate my heart. It wants to destroy.
I can’t let it.
Turning on my feet in a spin, I funnel the momentum within and mimic it on the outside. I become the cyclone, letting a little of it out to release the pressure only to feel it drag me down like gravity would a stone. My legs slide out across the hardwood beneath me as I fall to the floor, my forearms resting against the coldness, my fists curled, my toes tucked up beneath my feet. This close, I can see the faint scars on my forearm hidden beneath my shattered heart tattoo and the cracked penny with Tiny’s name inked onto the surface.
Looking at it, my fucking heart expands to the point of bursting. This isn’t some metaphorical bullshit. I suffer an uncontrollable physical reaction to overwhelming emotion. Ifeelmy heart bulging, swelling, aching.
It hurts.
Sweat slides off my forehead, my pulse jumps erratically and as the beat drops, I feel a very real need to just fucking move. Pushing up off my knees, I put all my weight on my right hand and lift my legs off the ground in a floor leap before transitioning into an aerial cartwheel. As the floor passes beneath me in a blurred rush, and my body cuts through the air, I feel peace.
