calypso nightmore | district four

You broke your promises. Every last one of them, no matter how small.

"I'll never leave. I promise."

"I promise you, Calypso, you can always trust me."

"I promise" "I promise" "I promise." These words are meaningless you promised so much but it meant NOTHING

You promised me forever. You promised me what I wanted most—love—and then you snatched it away from me. You carved my heart out of my chest and crushed it until it was ash. I learned from the best and the best is you. But I have perfected your art, mastered it. My only solace is that I am better than you, for I do not prey on the innocent. My victims are men like you. Sirens. (And now I am one, too.)

I am a siren, as you are, singing a molasses melody, softer than a salty sea breeze against the sails. (The ominous calm and stunning beauty before a deleterious storm.) My captivating songs are filled with bright promises and beautiful dreams and bouquets of red roses. But it is too good to be reality—I learned the hard way. It is just a fantasy, a cruel mirage, a ploy to feed one's own lust for agony.

You could call me a sadist. Heartbreaker. Monster. Whatever I am it is better than what you are.

But I prefer siren.

(Thank you very much.)

My beauty serves as a cloak to cover up the darkness that flourishes within and the hungry lion of sadism that growls for more pain, more tears of those who have done wrong in the world of love and lust. Demons dance in my glimmering dark eyes, around and around in circles on the outskirts of my inky pupil. My full rosy lips are laced with poison, a venom that gradually seeps into the veins of my victims each time our lips meet. Beneath my long, silken locks of chocolate hair is a damaged, darkened brain.

And under my sunkissed skin, soft like rose petals, are broken insides, shattered like mirrors at the hands of someone far more cruel than I could ever dream to be. (You.) For someone so small compared to her victims—5'5 and with a svelte frame—I am terrifyingly powerful. I manipulate feelings and minds like they are simple threads I weave into my master plan. And I lie so easily—they just slip right off my tongue so naturally.

I sashay with power behind my step into the lives of men who have habits of using or objectifying women. The men that become my prey are the ones who take hearts and rip them from the inside and out. (Vengeance is sweet, isn't it?) But I turn the tables on them. I show them what pain is, these pampered, selfish men. The suffering I bring upon them is a wild dark horse and I am behind the reins.

It all begins with the smile of a stranger, the very first thing that catches their attention. And from there, once I have enticed them, locked them in the cyclone, it is a short path to misery. Flirty glances, passionate kisses, and best of all, sex. And after I am satisfied, after their heart belongs to me,

I crush them.

With one swift stroke. With four lethal words.

"I don't love you."

(You would be so proud of me, Andrew.)

Before you stopped my world from spinning I was such a euphoric girl and now, I do not remember what pure happiness feels like. And I love my parents and Pandora and Altair and Vega but they cannot wipe away the pain with any joy they bring me. I can forget, for fleeting moments, when I am on my boat, The Siren, eyes closed and arms extended to feel the sea spray and the cool breeze in my hair. My dress will billow in the wind, my soft waves of hair will fly behind my face, and I am numb. For just a little while, I do not feel the scar you left behind. I do not feel the darkness, the everlasting hunger for revenge. (You cannot feel my retribution but I can.)

But the moment I set foot on shore, I am no longer at peace. I am once more disturbed by the past and I feel the familiar throb of the scar and my heart will sink, knowing that I'll see you in my dreams.

And for that, I hate the land and love the sea.

I like to imagine I can drown my sorrows in the ocean. That perhaps, when I delve into the sea at low tide, if I hold my breath long enough, the anguish will drown and I will live and I will feel the same as I was before. Blissful. If only the burn of my lungs from holding my breath could somehow shut the internal pain out. If only I could hurt you or kill you and then maybe I would be happy, but the damage is already done and nothing will ever repay it.

The sea holds so many precious but excruciating memories. But the sea does not remind me of you. The sea is my childhood, the place I made my bones. Not even you can take that away from me.

It is the only thing you left me with.

That, and four lethal words.

"I don't love you."

He took my hand and lead me to the mast of the boat. The soft sea breeze roared through our hair and the tiny space between our bodies. It was the perfect moment. The setting sun was throwing gold and pink and fire into the sky and the steady rock of the boat against the tranquil waves could have lulled me to sleep if my body was not ignited with passion by his touch.

He leaned in and kissed me, his lips salty from the sea water. But this kiss . . . it felt different. It felt like an omen before a heart-wrenching death. But I, like the fool in love I was, brushed it off. I lost my sense of right and wrong anyway when our lips touched, when I was locked in his warm arms.

And when he pulled away, our eyes met. I saw something in the depths of those sea blue eyes. It was a sinister gleam, something I thought he was not capable of. (What a good liar he was is.) That was when my heart stopped.

"I don't love you," he said. But he spoke the four terrible words like he was telling me that he loved me. They were soft and gentle and full of love. But his tone was a lie and he spoke the truth, the ugly, horrible truth.

My veins froze with pain.

"What? I . . . I don't understand," I said, my voice cracking.

And he repeated, "I. Don't. Love. You."

I felt a searing in my chest and then my heart broke like a china doll falling from a thousand feet. There were no words—they all got caught in my throat. There were tears gathering in my eyes, charcoal storm clouds threatening to release a downpour. But I would not cry in front of him.

So I turned away from him, releasing his hands from mine. (My skin throbbed where he had touched me.) With breakneck speed I kicked off my black heels and tore off my scarlet dress and tossed both of them into the sea for them to sink and then rot in the sand. And then I plunged into the water, head first, without even glancing back. I knew if I did, my heart would break all over again and the tears would have surely fallen.

My makeup was dripping like black tears down my cheeks but I was consumed by agony and I did not care. My hair had been in perfect curls but was now tangled and sticky from the saltwater. I did not care. And I was walking up the beach in nothing but my bra and panties. I did not care.

I did not care about anything. It was as if those four lethal words had weathered that part of me away. (But little did I know, that was only the beginning.)

In a few short minutes, my world had come crumbling down. And now it is still rubble and I can't seem to find the materials to put it all back together.