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The only friend who can tolerate my crazy and gives me methods to counter the way my chaotic brain presses on my sanity.
I’m not a docile kitten outside this state of hyper mania—I’ll always want to beat up things for sport. However, at least then I can tell my thoughts apart. I can see the world in colors other than red.
I can see people’s features.
Having had manic episodes since puberty, I’m used to it. I’m so used to it that I have it completely under control.
Today is different.
Today, I jumped off a tree, rolled down a cliff, and fell from my bike. I swam until I nearly had a heart attack.
But that’s the problem. My heart rate hasn’t gone down. Not once. Not when I tried to inhale and exhale slowly. Not when I forced myself to remain still for…five minutes.
I haven’t been able to fucking breathe properly, and whenever I do, my lungs fill with the same fucking red mist that’s blinding my eyes.
Every second of every minute, I’m itching and burning to erase it. And for years, the only way I’ve been able to do that is to beat people the fuck up.
There are also pills, but fuck those right the fuck off. They kill my mind, take away my inhibitions, and nearly drowned me in the pool the last time I took them.
I know how to keep myself in check without their unwanted help. They’re not helping anyway. They just turn me into a fucking zombie, and no one likes that fucked-up guy.
I pace the length of the locker room back and forth, back and forth like a caged gladiator in Roman times.
The crowd’s cheers reach me from outside, buzzing on my skin as if I’m being stung by a thousand bees.
People love the adrenaline of seeing violence. They love the crunching of bones and the spilling of blood. There’s something intoxicating about watching two people shred each other a new one.
And I get off on the screams. The chants. The enchanted look in their eyes. It’s why I usually take a few of them home for a fuck fest that always takes place afterward.
Sex and violence go hand in hand with me. A high. A release. A perfect synergy of fucked-up energy.
Tonight, however, I have absolutely no intention of continuing this tradition. I haven’t for several weeks.
Fucking Kolya and his stupid imaginary chastity belt.
Though he’s not chaste—it’s blasphemy to call him that. He’s just become selective and is only into a certain reluctant asshole.
At the mere thought of my lotus flower, my cock twitches to life, tenting against my shorts.
See. He’s still a dick, just not for everyone.
Pacing the length of the dimly lit locker room, I stare at my phone that’s been gripped in my hand for the past…fuck knows how long.
I should be out there, beating Kill to a pulp and getting beaten in return, but I can’t stop looking at my conversation with Bran.
It’s been four days since the day he finally agreed to stop running from us—well, he didn’t say that exactly, but he laid out all those fucking conditions, so he can bet his ass that I took that as an agreement to my sole condition.
I went running with him the past three days, and he was still stalling, being the epitome of an asshole and refusing to come to the penthouse.
Every day, he came with a different excuse. Practice. Meeting with friends. Art project.
He finds those so easily, the lies slipping out of his beautiful mouth without a second thought.
Fucking liar.
He’s just trying to avoid the inevitable, which I told him in not-so-subtle words over texts yesterday.
Me
