𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨́𝐧 𝐈𝐯𝐲

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏𝟕.

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯
'I Wanna Be Yours,' Artic Monkeys🎶🎧

Armani's Pov
I watched, wordless, as Ivy adorned her left ear with a matching pearl earring, the quiet of the room stretching out as we prepped for the gala. The air had shifted since our intimate night, her silence since then pressing strangely against my chest. That silence stirred an unfamiliar ache in my chest, a new kind of sadness taking root as I felt her intentional ignorance. Was it something about me that turned her off, or was she just not in the mood to talk?

Even though we've only been in Paris for three days, I can't help but feel overwhelmed by these new emotions that Ivy has built up within me. Deep down, I've been grappling with the reality of my traumatizing experience as a serial killer makes me undeserving of her. Witnessing Ivy's vibrant lifestyle and the incredible people she surrounds herself with has only reinforced these doubts. It's a struggle, trying to find my place in her world.

Previously, I had pondered the reasons for my desire to carve out a space in her life, but now, the realization has dawned on me. Never before have I experienced such profound emotions towards someone, and frankly, I was unaware that I was even capable of such depth of feeling. All I understood was a yearning to remain inseparably close to her for as long as my liberty allowed.

Occasionally, I've felt less than human, and Ivy's reactions to my inhuman deeds evoke a strange, feeling within me. Perhaps it's unusual to hear someone with my history speak of emotions; yet, I assure you, my intent is not to garner sympathy or anything of the sort. The concept of having a confidant, someone to truly listen to you, is foreign to me. But, something deep down whispers to me that Ivy might offer a safe haven for my confessions, and not hurt me in the process like they did.

My principle as an individual who does what I do is to prioritize self-defense rather than allowing others to harm me.

I acknowledge that there's no justification for taking a life, and empathy wasn't a trait I held close. Yet, my chaotic childhood marred by abuse, neglect, and sexual trauma undoubtedly sculpted my existence into its current, deformed shape. I don't lay the blame for my adult actions at the feet of my past, but the connection is undeniable. A nomadic childhood, shuffled between homes under the care of a father battling addictions and a mother who allowed, performed, and even requested for all of those things to happen to me was exhausting.

I'm proud of my adult self.

The consequences of my parents actions going unpunished often angered me. Driven by a deep-seated need for justice, I took drastic measures to remove them from this world. Yet, as life slipped from their grasp, I anticipated a surge of relief within myself. Instead, a profound emptiness settled within my heart. Now, I spend my free days by the river where I released them into the ether, the persistent murmur of water against rock a constant companion to my eardrums.