Broken Succubus

It was no secret that I had more than a “thing” for her. She was all red lips and smouldering eyes; dark sensuality was an art she
mastered and she wielded it with the finesse of silk caressing your skin on a cool summer night. And God… that voice, smoky and raspy like she’d spent the whole day inhaling a pack of cigarettes; would seep under my skin, right into my fucking insides where it would twist up my intestines and freeze my brain. I was only a mere distraction for when her complicated love life was out of her control. And she sure liked complications. Simplicity was a dirty rumour in her world. Barely tolerated and never verified. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so bitter about the situation between us. I was never known for my verbal eloquence. I was inured to subtlety for so
long that the mere thought of direct honesty had me reaching for my inhaler. Like the coward I am, I convinced myself that friendship was all I could offer her. In reality, I was scared of how easily she’d be able to shatter me if I let her in. I wasn’t even with her and she already made me unravel. I was not ready to lose control. At least not yet. She lived and breathed drama. The original femme fatale. Dramatic storm outs and heated ultimatums were her forte in an emotional war. Projecting an aura of invincibility, she appeared indestructible. So you can imagine my surprise the first time she confessed a weakness to me. I had never seen her so defeated and subdued. It was as if all the energy she normally possessed simply vanished. Soon her appearing at my doorstep at odd hours became less surprising; it was expected even. So here she was again standing in front of me; dark mascara running down her cheeks, hair in disarray, swollen red eyes. Fucking hero complex. Always wanting to save the girl but no one to save me. Before I could ask her what was wrong, she choked out three words.
“I killed her.”
Shit. This was going to be a long night.


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