What we call memory is the intersection between imagination and fact. Memories are the stories we tell ourselves about the important events in our lives. In the telling, some details get lost, others embellished, until truth is closer to fiction.
My heart in my throat and my soul flying, I whisper, “Ten carats? So tiny. God, you’re a cheapskate, gangster.” He hugs me, hard, kissing the top of my head, my earlobe, my neck. Into my ear he says softly, “Marry me.” Of course it had to be a command, not a question. My voice cracks when I answer. “Let me get a look at this tiny ring first. I’ll let you know in a minute.
In order to survive, the oppressed must learn the language of their oppressors. And guns are the only language certain men speak.
I’m an addict, and he’s heroin, injected straight into my veins.
A woman is like a tea bag. You can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water. – Eleanor Roosevelt.
Eva. My love. Our souls are already bound together. My life is bound to yours, and so is my heart, for eternity. Let’s make it legally binding, too. Marry me.
Hell is a state of mind, my dear. Reality is simply what we believe it to be. Each of us makes our own truths, even ghosts.
My god, the way he talks. The man is the Shakespeare of smut.
Every day I’m without you, I die.
There are a million shades of gray between good and evil, love. Am I on the darker end of the spectrum? Yes. Am I a bad man who does good things or a good man who does bad things? Both. But you made this monster your slave. All of what I am, good and bad, light and dark, belongs to you.
The tragedy of it all is that I already know this man will ruin me, but even that isn’t enough to make me want to save myself. Now, I just want to jump into the flames and burn.
When I remain silent, he prompts, “Why aren’t you saying anything?” “I’m too busy patting myself on the back for how well I’m adjusting to being married to a psychopath. I’m not even crying or anything.
You look like a cat that can’t decide if it’s going to purr or claw me to shreds.
You wear my ring. You sleep in my bed. You made a promise in front of witnesses to have and to hold me for the rest of your life. You chose me, Emery. And because you chose me, you own me, now and forever, come what may.
Sweet little lamb,” he murmurs against my lips. “Hungry, aren’t you?” “Why do you have to ruin everything by talking?
You never have to be afraid of anything again. If you have a problem, I’ll fix it. If you need something, I’ll give it to you. If anyone bothers you, I’ll make them wish they hadn’t. Whatever you want or need, you tell me, and you’ll have it. You’re mine now.
What are you doing?” I cry, panicking. “Taking my wife home.” He makes it sound as if a dungeon and a pair of shackles are in my immediate future.
If I were looking at you like you were my next meal, you’d already be eaten.
Okay. You go first. Do you really think I look like a camel?’ “No. I think you look like Rockefeller Center at Christmas, Japan in cherry blossom season, and the thousand vivid shades of green in the wild moors of Northern Ireland, all rolled into one.
I know I’m damaged. But all my broken pieces belong to you.
Hi, Homer. I’m Reyna. It’s nice to meet you. You look like an orphan’s idea of Christmas morning.