The Rich Life

31

Love. Love was an uncommon word for the Dervishi's. An alien and foreign concept. Ruthlessness, Heartlessness and borderline psychotic was our way to show our love. Money was our currency of pleasure. The outsiders, those not born into our gene pool of unfeeling emotions, were the only ones who showed love. 

The warmth always shown should've made me feel cold. But I relished in this natural, golden love, stealing it, saving it was the better term, for the bitterly cold days when I knew I would need it. And when Mom died, my only source evaporated to nothing. 

That's when I started to enjoy hurting girls. I mean, I wouldn't hurt them anything, that was a rare case for when a whore pissed me off. It was the mental torture, playing on the vulnerability of a female, the promised calls, the sex that makes you feel like the Earth and Heaven touched, the elaborate meals at intimate restaurants. All of it meant nothing. But to them, it was everything they dreamed of.

If you ask me the best way to kill someone? Not a knife, that's too quick. Fill them with love, so much that it hurts when you even touch them, then leave.  

The first girl I truly broke: Emily Vanderbilt. She was a Vanderbilt. Enough said. I waited until she was so head-over-heels, ready-to-die for me, in love. Then I left her. She came crashing down to Earth like a broken star. I'm not sure where she is now. I'm partially to blame for her downfall. The route of cocaine, opiates and weed to numb the pain I caused. She became an expensive prostitute, selling herself to Billionaires. Then she became a lesbian, loathing all the men who brought her.  

Then she was expelled from the family fortune to prevent further shame. We were only 15. I didn't expect it so I was vaguely surprised when I heard this story years later. I killed her mentally. 

Everything I am, made me everything I am not. 

Then for a few years, I embraced misogyny for all it was worth. I refused to talk to a woman. Or anything with vagina. Fucking was a different matter. I refused to talk to them. I didn't believe them to be worthy. Until I met Maribelle.

Love with Maribelle was more about status. It was to spite all my other friends who wanted her.. Snatching up the most enviable, bubbly bombshell anyone could lay their hand on. I believe anything I deserve, I have a right to it. We didn't even have anything in common. I just hated how the men leered at her as she walked into the room, and I wanted her just to make it stop. I just dug deep enough into my wallet and she said I do. On the outside, we were the beaming, adoring couple. Inside, we were seething and driven by our ambitions. That love soured so badly. But it lasted longer than the average Hollywood marriage.

Love with Amara is something I categorize differently. I wouldn't even call it love, I would rank it as an ultra-soul tearing connection. It was hatred mingled with love that made me ultimately fall in love with her. War and peace. Vodka was easier to swallow than the fact she wasn't coming back. She would love to see me die, and I'd happily do it to see a smile on her dimpled cheeks. 

Love with Madilyn. Now that was complicated. I was so tired of hurting people when she found me. I had stopped glorifying and romanticizing heartbreak. Because it was a death sentence that I was forced to live through every day. 

But in the end, Amara doesn't want me. It's Madilyn. And despite all this bullshit, she hasn't just given up. Honey dripped from her words, the sweetest words, teaching me about proper love. 

"Broken people break other people," She taught me and by God, was she right. I was in pain and I wanted others to feel it too.

Hurt people are better at hurting other people. Agreed. Scientists and Doctors talk about how we inherit genes from our parents, but I also inherited their legacy of pain and hurt.