Page 88 of Dance of Thorns

Sofucking worth it, even though I could barely get through rehearsal on Monday because my pussy was still screaming at me for fucking a horse all Saturday night.

Or a stag, I guess.

And worth it even if every time I think of her, or even glance at her diary, I feel like an utter piece of shit.

Maybe the entries about Lark being a psycho manipulative cunt behind Bane’s back—and mine—are a blessing in disguise. Maybe they’ll inject just enough bitterness into my memory of her that I can stomach sleeping with Bane.

Because I have, four more times since that night. And even though every time it happens I sit in my room later, biting back tears of shame and self-loathing as I read her words from seven years ago…

I keep doing it.

Like I've said before: you’re always an addict. You just strive to be one that doesn’t use.

My problem is, I’ve found a new addiction.

And he lives down the hall.

I exhale, closing Lark’s diary and wincing as I hobble to the bathroom. I wasn’t with Bane tonight. He’s been gone since this morning, presumably for some work thing. But last night…Jesus.

Last night he fucked me on an open ledge—the literal ledge—of his glassed-in roof, with my head hanging over the side and gravity wrapping its long fingers around my heart. He fuckedme like an animal, both of us slapping and clawing at each other until we were both bloodied beyond measure.

This…can’t be healthy.

But then addictions rarely are.

In the bathroom, I open the medicine cabinet and take my nightly buffet of lithium, risperidone, Zoloft, Lexapro and buspirone and then chase it all down with a lorazepam plus a melatonin for dessert, hold the whipped cream.

I drop my eyes to the lineup of pill bottles on the counter.

Little plastic soldiers to remind me exactly how fucked in the head I am.

…As if my nighttime activities of the last week or so aren't proof enough.

I frown, remembering as I stare at the bottles that Dad texted me recently, reminding me to make time next week to meet with Dr. Caruso. He didn’t say why, but it’s been about six months since my last appointment regarding my psych meds, so it’s probably time for a dosage review.

Gotta keep the crazy in check, right?

I limp back to bed and gingerly slide under the covers before I turn off the light. Even with the lorazepam and melatonin slowly entering my bloodstream, sleep doesn’t come.

This…can’t be healthy.

But then addictions rarely are.

I stare at the ceiling, thinking about, well…

Bane.

I’ve been doing that a lot recently. Like,a lot.

It started as cautious wariness. A week ago, the thoughts turned vicious and wild and all-consuming, which is why I call him my new drug—a toxic high that I simply can’t get enough of.

But in the last few days…I don’t know.

It’s started to run even deeper. And that scares me more than any nighttime chase, or freakishly giant cock, or psycho stag mask.

A lot of it is that being near him has always made me think of Lark, for obvious reasons. And since I’ve started sleeping with him, that’s only gotten more intense. But it’s notonlya guilty feeling, like I’m a piece of shit for stealing him or whatever. The more time I spend with him, the more I find myself thinking about that chapter of my life, trying to piece together the missing bits of my past.

It’s not like Bane has a magic dick that fixes the holes in my memory. But you know how the scent of a certain candle will make you immediately think of a specific Christmas spent at a cousin’s house? Or how the taste of a candy brings you back to an exact day on the playground in the second grade? Yeah.