Monsters Weep Too, Little Bluebird

A pitch black erotic horror.
Growing up, my mother taught me there were no monsters. But my mother was wrong. There were monsters in my childhood home. Monsters wearing my father’s face while he butchered and assaulted women. There were monsters in my ex-boyfriend too. In the way he lathered me with bruises and called it passion.

Then there is Malakar. The monster who dragged me beneath his house and clipped my wings. He keeps me where the world cannot find me. He hurts me like he wants to hollow me out, then touches me like I am the only thing in his dark worth worshiping. There is something broken and rotten inside of him. I should hate him. I do hate him. But some monsters do not only destroy. Some crawl inside the places already ruined and make a home there.

Malakar is a sick killer. So why does some ruined part of me still want to crawl inside his darkness and hold what’s left of him? 

Even the cruelest monsters weep and bleed, his brokenness devours me.