Loving Two Crime Lords

SAMARA'S POINT OF VIEW The stupidest and the most idiotic thing you can do is to change yourself for someone. I look at the pathetic 22-year-old woman looking back at me in the reflection of the big, elegant mirror from the luxurious bathroom I share with my dear husband, laughing bitterly at the image that I never thought I’d see. Running mascara, fake eyelashes, unnecessary makeup, colored lenses, blonde hair in a tight bun, pink shiny lipstick smeared all over my face, pink wifely dress, and pink four-inch heels. Pitiful. What did I think? That he’ll miraculously fall in love with me in time? That my life will turn out to be like the stories I read online in which the bad boy marries a good girl and falls in love without wanting due to her beautiful character? That he’ll stop f*****g everything on two legs and want only me? Fucking stupid. I take a deep breath, take the remote, and press play, and loud music booms inside the bathroom, smiling when the song Jokes on You by Charlotte Lawrence fills my ears and my old self resurfaces. I take off the fake lashes, splash my face with water, rub off the mask I’ve been putting on for two years in the name of love, then take out the lens, and a breath of relief escapes my lips when my mismatched eyes look at the almost free Samara. I untie my straitened hair, take out the red dye I bought to get back my original crazy red color, and then get to work. “I’m coming back,” I say to myself after I finish putting the dye on my hair, then take the scissors and cut the stupid dress that I won’t ever have to put on again. The second the material fell from my body I felt a rush, a wave of freedom that I hadn’t felt in almost three years. I didn’t realize it until now, but that f*****g dress felt like barbed wire around my body. I get rid of my stockings and high heels, then yell from the top of my lungs. A sound of freedom and rage that covers the song I put on repeat since I started coming back to my senses. “f**k! f*****g f**k! f**k!!!” It feels so f*****g good to curse. “Whoever invented curse words is my f*****g hero! I’ll make you a f*****g statue if we ever meet! Motherfucker!” I laugh genuinely for once, freely, not giving a s**t about how colorful my laughter is. I’m f*****g high on freedom. The alarm rings, telling me that it’s time to wash the dye off my hair, and I go under the expensive shower and turn on the water, not giving a flying f**k if it’s cold or hot because I can’t feel it anyway. The adrenaline in my body makes everything feel f*****g amazing. The sight of the water turning red and rolling down my body makes me feel strangely dark, wild, reminding me of the woman I once was, the woman I’m taking back today, the woman that can’t be hurt, the one who doesn’t give a s**t about what people think about her. I wash my hair with shampoo until there’s no more red dye, then start to scrub my body, smiling when my tattoos reveal from under the concealer I use daily to hide my true self. My right arm is tattooed from my wrist to my shoulder up to my neck. On my shoulder, I have a beautiful tattoo of half wolf, half my face, and it’s surrounded by the thorns of the gorgeous roses that are like a vine, taking over my arm, protecting me from pain by threatening to inflict pain. I’m not narcissistic, far from it, but that tattoo was supposed to be me and my inner animal. I was asked a thousand times why a wolf and not a lion because lions are stronger. The answer is easy. You will see a lion in a circus, but you’ll never see a wolf. They can’t be tamed, they are born wild and die wild. But unfortunately, I became a f*****g lion for a piece of s**t, and not even a strong one. On the side of my neck, there’s another rose, but if you look closely, you will see a skull inside of it. “This is me!” I get out of the shower, not giving a f**k that water practically pours down my body and onto the floor, then go inside the huge walk-in closet I share with my dear future ex-husband, and look into the long mirror. I’m 5 ft 11, about 140 pounds, round breasts, not huge, enough to fill the hand of a man. Not my husband’s because he f***s me once a month and then with the lights off. But another man. It was me who asked him to turn off the lights at first because I was a f*****g virgin, I was never naked in front of a man, and I was afraid to tell him, afraid that he wouldn’t like me, afraid that he'd see how nervous I was, how insecure and, of course, how inexperienced, but that didn’t make it better. And to top it off, when he went into the bathroom and saw he was bloody, he assumed that I was on my period, and got angry. Yes, a fairytale experience. Better go back to my tattoos if I don’t want to go completely insane. I have a half-demon, half-angel tattooed on my stomach. The bony wings of the demon go along the left underside of my breast, and the beautiful angel’s wing is on the right side. The demon has a tail and a curved horn on her head, and the angel has a half halo and her hand is slightly stretched, emanating light, as if to reach you, give you innocence, while the demon wants to pull you in, make you sin. How the f**k did I dare hide this masterpiece? I turn to look at my back tattoo, and a heavy sigh escapes my lungs. I never gave it much attention, even though it was hard because it’s on my back. I always hurried to conceal it and only looked at the ink and not the tattoo itself. It’s not big at all, it’s long and thin, with numbers from the top of my spine to the bottom. It’s a secret code, a promise I made to my grandfather. One that I broke. “Always be yourself, kiddo. Don’t let the world change you. You are beautiful as you are.” His raspy voice and loving words haunted me all these years, and I was always ashamed when I went to his grave dressed like a f*****g doll, and the shame and guilt made me feel so bad that at some point I just stopped going. “I’m sorry, Grandpa... I promise I’ll come visit you as I used to.” I vow and blink back the tears of guilt and shame. “Fuck.” I realize that I’m still wet, and I go back inside the bathroom to dry my body and then blow my hair a bit because it will take forever to dry by itself. My hair, when I’m not straightening it, it’s wavy, almost curly, and has a lot of volume. My grandpa used to say that I have enough hair for two girls. It’s not long, -at least I kept the haircut the same-, it’s shoulder-length, and I smile but roll my eyes at the same time when I see how the crazy red color accentuates my crazy mismatched eyes that I hid to look like the perfect image of the perfect wife with no flaws whatsoever. Fuck them! Everything about me is crazy and flawed, and if they don’t like it, they can go f**k themselves. My right eye is a shade of light jade green, and on the edge, there’s a line of dark green, and my left eye, the brown one, looks almost golden. “Let’s get wilder,” I smirk and go into the bedroom where I dropped the bags with the clothes I bought. P.S. I’m truly proud of myself. I managed not to break down in front of him or anyone else. I even managed to shop with a smile on my face, but, unfortunately, once I walked into the bedroom I fell to my knees and fell apart. But, thanks to my grandpa, I got back up. I pull on the tight latex pants, then a classic white tank top, and a pair of leather boots, which are tight around my legs and reach up until under my knees, with a three-inch heel, and I can’t help but moan when the smell of leather enters my nostrils once I take my new leather jacket on. Fuck, I missed leather... The strong fragrance brings with it the memory of someone very special to me, but I stop myself before I go into that territory, and go inside the closet to take one more look at myself, and my eyes instantly fill with tears, but not sad ones. “I f*****g missed you.” I’m talking about myself. I take the leather backpack and put there my new leather wallet, laughing at the old, pink one and rolling my eyes at myself, the key from the warehouse where I hid my beautiful sports motorbike because I just didn’t have the heart to give it away, throw the black backpack over my shoulder, then make my way downstairs. I stop at the end of the stairs and listen carefully for any noise that could tell me where my driver and bodyguard might be, and I smile when I hear the faint sound of the TV. Now, I’m sure that he wouldn’t recognize me if he saw me, but I’m not in the mood to fight him, -because I do know how to fight. I’m not a damsel in distress like I let everyone believe, so I wouldn’t look like a-- enough about that.-, and I’m definitely not in the mood for police interrogation. Been there, done that, it’s not cool. Even if the living room is far, I still tiptoe my way to the garage because the motherfucker has superhearing, then take the keys from the silent Tesla, and drive away. The windows are tinted, and the gate guard can’t see inside the car, so he opens the gate, most probably thinking that it’s Axel. Yeah, I wasn’t allowed to drive because the wife of the big bad Zion Leroy is a f*****g queen. Ha. Note the sarcasm. I push the gas once I’m out of the guard’s sight, and my heart starts beating faster. Shit, I missed speed, but something is still missing. The roar of an engine. The Tesla is so quiet that I hear the other cars better, but I needed it, so Axel wouldn’t hear me leave. Without shutting the engine, I open the door, jump out of the car, and run towards the locked warehouse where my love waits for me. I’m shaking, I barely open the damn door. I feel like I’m reuniting with a lifelong best friend. About that. I’ll have to do some groveling. But for now... I pull the cover that’s been over my love for years. “I’m sorry, babe... s**t, I missed you.” I apologize to the gorgeous black bike while I brush the leather seat, circling her, and stopping in front of it. “My other half.” I go and open the storage compartment, take out the helmet, and kiss the s**t out of it. Just like the motorbike, the design of the helmet is custom-made. The color is a mix of black, gray, and white. It’s the night sky, but in the front is the face of a black wolf, with eyes like mine. The right one is bright green, and the left one is golden brown. “Shit...” This time I couldn’t blink the tears away. They fell. Maybe some would think I’m stupid for crying over a motorbike, but for me, it’s more than a bike, it’s... me... the wild mess my grandpa raised me to be. I had parents, I still have, but they never gave a s**t about me, so my grandpa took me under his wing. “I’m back, Grandpa, and I swear never to change again.” I make another vow, this time with a smile on my face, and a feeling of peace engulfs me, a feeling of ease... as if my grandpa heard me and forgave me.