Cassie is self-sabotaging, a dry sense of humour, a sultry melody, a sarcastic remark. She's a dead gaze, smudged eyeliner, a garden of withering red tulips, and... an addict. 

Etienne is indecisive, anxious, classically handsome, a teller of great stories. He's a smile that doesn't reach the eyes, a lit cigarette, an alternative rock song, and a bad friend.  

It all started when they were only six years old. And it hasn't stopped. It keeps happening. They weave in and out of each other's lives, with their strange connection to blame. Their bond is both strengthened and weakened by their shared traumas. Their relationship is a ballad about codependency and the electricity of first love. 

Their lives are an unmanageable mess that sees them dwell in the world of drugs, depression, and the multitude of young women being found dead in the Merseyside Area. They each must confront their faith in second chances, fate, and circumstance. 

                                                         ― ― ― ― ― 

 And he's somewhere in the middle. But you can also find him at the beginning, and he'll be waiting for you by the end. He's everywhere. He is good with ropes, great at sketching, addicted to pornographic content. He hates his wife, hates his son, knows how to avoid leaving fingerprints on his victims.

ON MOUNT EVEREST WITH YOU.

"My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you." 


― John Keats, Bright Star: Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne 


THE blood alone didn't really bother me. Whether it be from my mother's beatings or from the adventures of a reckless childhood, I'd always known blood to be natural and expected in some circumstances. No need to fret. 


What bothered me was how bloodied and bruised my hands appeared to be, which I gathered from sight alone because I couldn't actually feel them. They'd gone numb at some point during the last five minutes, and I only watched with hazy detachment as they came down, again and again, connecting with the face of that putrid man I already loathed with all of my being despite only formally knowing him for all of fifteen minutes. 


A voice of reason told me I should be expecting a sting, maybe some soreness, because I knew some of the blood that was covering my knuckles was my own as well. 


Chapter Thirty-Five.