When I think of him now, I feel a seamless blend of hatred, adoration, and nostalgia. There's no point in lying about someone I find so utterly fascinating. Who wouldn't feel grateful for the idea of a true understanding? We both saw each other completely, and I will never experience such a catastrophe again. Perhaps that is why those dreadful hours seem to eclipse absolutely everything in my life; I find myself seeking it out constantly, subconsciously, consciously. Nothing has rivalled seeing something unravel like that, it was just as vivid and stunning as a beautiful tapestry bursting into flames. Sentimentality is truly a knife to the soul and I can't stop bleeding out.
In my mind, hatred cannot exist without love; I hate him truly because he made it impossible for me to accept him for who he was without murdering myself in the process. Yet in his endless greed and sabotage, I was forced to betray him. It was never enough for him - he had to torch everything. It is no surprise, that when I escaped, still smothered in the ashes, everyone knew what he'd done before I dared to speak of any fire.
