His blood is on my hands and so is her lipstick. The combination is art.
I stare at the steering wheel, knuckles still burning from the impact, adrenaline still jerking in my veins like a live electricity. She’s besides me, clutching onto her clothes like her life depends upon it. Like an wounded animal, exactly how I feel.
And I haven’t moved.Not for the last ten minutes.Not even looked at her.
Because if I look at her, I’ll ruin her again. I’ll f**k her. I’ll make her cry again. And I don’t know if that’s a warning or a promise.
She’s silent, not crying anymore. Breathing too softly, afraid the sound might provoke the monster.
Me.
I light a cigarette with hands though should be in cuffs. I never force women. f**k. Why does she have this affect on me?
The smoke curls in my lungs l
