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You, my dear,
are an inconsiderate

dull and stupid little brat.

Tolerated out of pity,

You are a bitch who

hasn't been properly trained.

Should you have been blessed

with the beauty of Aphrodite

your poor character might

be justified but as beauty

becomes a Goddess, ugliness

graces the mean lines of

your spoiled face.

If attention

were heroin, I'd

call you a junkie

But you are more

fascinating to yourself

than anyone else, rest assured

Abusing the good

intentions of

those unfortunate

enough to bear

your presence; you

take advantage

of courtesy so

that you might

perpetuate your

childish nonsense

And one day, my dear,

you won't be tolerated any longer

and you'll push him in the bar

you'll push a little too far; perhaps

having your jaw wired shut

is the only way to shut you up.

You are an insult to women.

You will never learn; you will never live

a real life but you'll die like the rest of us.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…