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I have a serial killer documentary on. It’s giving me ideas on what to do to him in his sleep if he ever returns.
I’d set the world on fire, including myself, if it meant saving her.
All I need to know is who I am with him. And I know exactly who that is—his. Nothing else fucking matters.
“Good girl,� I hear him praise her, and she whimpers. I know, girl. I get it. Why do we crave that? To be praised for something that others would find degrading.
And out of all the things I’ve done, you are by far the greatest reward for my selfishness.�
