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The End

A dim mirage of a life of luxury marred with the beautiful ills I've had to offer, illuminated in the light I feared. Trembling.  Years trembling, wrecked by the necessary devastation to appreciate our broken reflections.

Trembling in the face of impossible dreams. They lent me their hand in the dawn of a night dusted in bitter confectioner's sugar.

What I've been writing for, the thing I've always wanted, to be the most elegant embodiment of debauchery for a man who celebrates the depths of a lovely tragedy. 

My dreams have sighed, beginning to breath despite the new fear crawling towards the afterglow.

This man I've always known. This man can exploit me properly. This man will save me from an ordinary life.

I'll be famous. You'll be dead.

We'll be laughing in the leather of a black car. 


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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.

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