bonnie blackwell | district four | fin

B O N N I E  B L  A C K W E L L

Dear reader, when you aim at the devil, make sure you don’t                            miss

She liked him better when he kissed her with his lips rather than his fist.

She wasn’t afraid of the blood or the split lip that came when the rage washed over him like the cresting of a wave, his back bent with the anger that he carried in his bones, in his marrow, his emotions gauntlets hanging from his arms. She couldn’t be afraid of it, not really.

She carried the same rage too. But her rage came in the form of a barbed tongue and poison words. Hitting someone with your fists only struck the skin.

Words could pierce it like arrows.

What he felt - everything burning inside of him - all the wrath and malice - it called to her the way his lips and tongue would caress that one spot on her ears that she just couldn’t resist. The same way he had called to her when they were ten and he was pulling her hair behind the back of her family’s trailer on the outskirts of Four.

Yeah, they were dirt poor and he was cute. It wasn't a fucking fairytale. 

Hair slicked back, white t-shirt hanging off of his body in a way that she knew meant it was a hand-me-down. It was too ill-fitting not to be his own. His blue jeans just a touch too tight and his black boots (his shit-kicking boots, as he called them) perpetually untied and two sizes too big.

But when he had gotten older - when his voice had dropped an octave and was low and slow with a bit of a rasp, man - he was dreamy.

Like aged whiskey, coating the back of your throat with that slight burn at the end. Like the beginning of a cigarette when you can feel the nicotine coursing through your veins, when you finally feel alive. Like jumping off the ravine into the rushing water.

Kissing him - loving him felt like that.

And they were unstoppable. Un-fucking-stoppable.

Petty cash, cons, you name it.

Small time stuff, obviously.

They weren’t criminal masterminds. They were just two kids too stupid to recognize their own mortality and too stubborn to admit it.

He called her his queen and he was her king. King of the Wasteland. King of the Scrapheap. 

But all kings lose their crowns.

And all castles are temporary. Even ones built out of rusted cars. 

*dear reader by miss taylor swift