Moonshine

Delicious Delirium Sent Him to Asylum

He didn't have a damn clue what to do. Hollowed out. Bewildered. Torn from the very fabric or reason. It was like he was high, high on fucking ecstacy, but not in any kind of blissful way—more like this messed-up, euphoric delirium that he couldn't shake off. Every damn word she ever spoke was playing on loop in his brain, gnawing at him, eating away like some kind of parasite. And don't you dare bring up his heart—because he didn't have one, alright? Not anymore. Just a hollow fucking cavity where it used to be, and he wasn't about to start pretending it existed.

All he had is his fucking mind, and he is fucking losing it. Losing it in her. Bit by bit. Fuck. Losing it to a woman who was so damn intense, so fiercely her, she made him feel colossal and insignificant at the same time. Like he was everything—her whole universe—and then nothing more than a grain of dust floating in her galaxy, ready to be blown away.

Hell, he wanted to throttle her. He wanted to throttle himself, to squeeze every last bit of breath out of his own lungs so maybe, maybe, he'd finally black out and stop. Stop this madness. Stop the constant fucking reel of her in his mind, because god knows, anything would be better than this. But he couldn't escape her. Not in dreams, not in waking. She was there—always. Haunting, hunting.

She, a paradox, a creature of touch and revulsion both. She had let him close, let him brush the edges of her solitude, a godless man granted communion with the divine. Had he savored it? Yes, but inadequately, with a haste that shamed him now. Oh, he would have that chance again—he would drink deep of that bitter nectar, take his time, make her tremble. He would make it worth her while, for the mere privilege of being near her once more.

But damn him, damn him for craving her so. For aching with such longing. Him, a fucking mere disgusting mortal and her, a celestial being.

On that day, he shunned the sun's gaze, for the light mirrored her eyes—those dreadful, unflinching fucking eyes that bore into him, unearthing his darkest truths. Her gaze did not lie. In it, he saw his fucking self laid bare, exposed, his own frail fucking defenses scattered to the wind. He wanted—oh, he almost needed—to see desperation there, to see her wounded, clinging, torn. But no, her eyes would see everything, even the parts of him he did not wish to reveal, as though she held his soul in her slender hand, ready to rip it asunder.

Yes, he fucking trembled under the vastness of it all, under the weight of his own despair, forced to parade his own pettiness under an uncaring sky. And he feared her. Yes, he fucking feared her.

Fucking Terrified.