These are bits and bobs from the book I’m working on (which is painfully close to being finished). It’s called Pretty Girls Die First. Please don’t steal the title or any of my carefully crafted words. I will find you and I will give you a very stern talking to.
I have been drained of my emotions. Someone stuck a cork in my brain and my heart, twisted, and then pulled it out without asking. And before I had the chance to say my piece, everything that makes me human spilled out of me and onto the floor, sticking to my shoes and swimming around my ankles. So that they always followed me, just out of reach, a reminder of what I’ve lost. I wish they had been poured into a nice tall glass, cooled with ice-cubes and given to me as a drink, my humanity fed back into my bloodstream. Maybe then I wouldn’t be this numb.
It’s funny how the night always plays out the same way. But still, I remain in my seat, transfixed by the tired narrative.
So I’m worried. I’m worried Leo is going to expect me to be perfect when all I’ll ever be is human.
So lately, stupidly, I’ve been thinking about Rob again. Not in a romantic, I want you back, type of way. Instead, I’ve been turning arguments over in my head. I’ve been cradling memories of dirty texts sent to other girls in the palm of my hand. It’s like cheating, in reverse.
Because, in the end, and as much as I despise myself for it, it’s easier to fixate on Robert. He knows me. There is no starting again with Robert because he’s already seen how ugly I am, inside and out.
“I’m never going to be in love with you the way that he was.”
I was deluded. I secretly trusted the idea that what we had was too passionate, too intense for this world. It was destructive and sometimes it left me raw but it was romantic. It was Scarlett and Rhett. Romeo and Juliet. Bonnie and Clyde. We were so in love with each other that we destroyed the better parts of one another. What I should have paid better attention to was the lack of a happy ending in these love stories. I should never have based my romantic expectations on fiction.
I bet that if he had pressed a gun to my breastbone and threatened to pull the trigger…I bet…I’d press my chest deeper into the barrel until it bruised me. And the next day, like a fool, I’d maintain his love for me. Romeo and Juliet baby. Romeo and that fucking idiot Juliet.