Huntington

“I figured it out when you moaned my brother’s name while coming around my cock.” His eyes dipped down as if to remind me I was still on him.

“If he can make you come harder than you did around my cock, he deserves a medal.”

“Fuck.” He pushed me down harder on him, grinding his cock between my thighs. “I can’t figure out what’s worse—that you’re twenty-fucking-two, that you’re my brother’s best friend, or that my mouth has never touched your pussy.”

“I’m concerned about it because I want to fuck your brains out until you lose the ability to walk straight.

I realized, with depressing clarity, that she wasn’t the venom at all. She was the antidote. But the quantities were all off.

Suicide is a war of two fears—fear of death and fear of the thing that pushes you toward it. The stronger side always wins. And if you lose, the penalty is death.

Once a year, for a stolen hour, I let myself be the venom. The toxin. The thing that poisoned her. But with one momentary lapse in selfishness, I pushed her away. I’ve regretted it every day since.

Better to feed my soul than my body.

No one asked you to touch me. No one asked you to stay. Don’t feel guilty because you want to leave me. Feel guilty because you’re shallow enough to be turned off by scar tissue. Now get out!”

I hope the last thing you think about when you close your eyes is the fact that your brother hated you enough that he chose death over living under your roof.