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conflicting advice

I don't understand.

Am I supposed to fight for you?

Or am I supposed to have you come to me?

Fuckin... tell me already.

Do you want me to show up at some bar randomly

and curb stomp the girl you're fucking that night?

Or am I just supposed to wait to have you come over and say,

" Your tendency to be aloof captivates me, and although I've been pounding pussy left and right, yours is the one I'd like to keep"

What the fuck, and you haven't even seen me when I clean up good.

And baby I clean up great. Maybe you'll have to wait to see me on a date with a different mate to get it.

Empty threats. Just come over and air-fuck me. I'm skinny for a reason.


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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…