My Painless Addiction (#Wattys2017)
  • Reads 3,868
  • Votes 305
  • Parts 15
  • Time 1h 19m
  • Reads 3,868
  • Votes 305
  • Parts 15
  • Time 1h 19m
Ongoing, First published Apr 19, 2016
Mature
The white and grey smoke curled itself into the air as he lit the paper beneath it. He had been clean, but now it just became a necessity. 
  
  Addiction and obsession to embodiments of nature were his companion.
  
  The paper quivered in his hands as he took a deep breath. The mist entering his system and lungs, spreading through his mind, body and soul. 
  
  The pain was there but it had dulled. The pain of losing her wasn't as much as he had thought it would be when he let the vapour spread through his body. 
  
  The pain of not having this held more excruciation than her.
  
  His body would repel the contents but he knew he needed more.
  
  His desires knew no bounds. Or were they his desires at all?
  
   But neither could he control it, nor could he take pleasure in it.
  
  It was his curse.
  
  And that if she was the boon to take it away was something he never knew he wanted.
  
  It was her.
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"You're atheist," I remind him. "You don't believe in god." "I believe in you," He murmurs, letting the cigarette hang from his lips. "I believe in whatever you believe." He says, letting the confession roll off his tongue as if it were that simple. As if god, the devil, heaven, hell-as if none of it really had meaning to him. "That's not how it works," I mutter as we walk down a few more alleyways-the city of Manhattan coated in a light blanket of snow. Henry Vitiello had never had anything to pray for, that is, until he met me-the only thing that had ever opened his mind up to the possibility of religion "Isn't it?" He argues, taking the cigarette by his middle and pointer finger before blowing the smoke out. "I'II dip my hands in holy water if it means I could touch you." "You'd probably burn." 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, the reaper. He's a prick. An asshole. A pretentious son of a bitch. He's not perfect. He's not even decent. But he's hers. She could be a bottle labeled poison but he was an alcoholic, and he had drunk her empty. Now he was hungover. 𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒, the healer. She's known to be the perfect good girl, with perfect grades and a perfect life with a perfect family. They didn't know that behind the gated doors of their billion dollar estate, she was strapped down to a chair every night and picked apart just to be put back together in time for supper. 𓆩♡𓆪 star-crossed; adjective (of a person or a plan) thwarted by bad luck. 'star-crossed lovers' and that, they were. So they fucked under those very stars that tried so desperately to break them apart. 𓆩♡𓆪 ‼️DISCLAIMER ‼️ BOOK REFERENCES TO MARA DYER, SHATTER ME, MIND FUCK, ETC ARE ALL INTENTIONAL SO DONT BE RUDE. AS FOR TRIGGER WARN