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Unknown Binding
Published August 28, 2024
Only when you think about it, when you really let yourself think about it, and you imagine the suffering of every person outside the wards—the deaths and the injuries and the trauma and the endlessness of it all, the helplessness that lingers, that’s passed through generations—then it makes your own safety taste bitter. It makes God’s love feel unreal. It makes Satan more tangible.
Someone like Leo Shaw—someone not quite perfect, and in many ways broken—deciding he will see me: it feels like confession, when you’re pouring out your sins, when you worry the priest on the other side of the booth is putting marks against your name, counting your wrongdoings, knowing you, seeing you—I am frightened to be seen.
“What do you want?” he babbles. “What do you want?”
I say it without thinking. I say it because something compels me to.
“Vengeance.”
“You’re so beautiful,” Leo says, finger under my chin, “Hunter Jones.”
But I am looking at beauty; fucked, spent, and breathing hard. I am looking at the most beautiful thing in this God-forsaken world, and every beautiful thing the teras have stolen from us was born again in this Adonis.
And I’ve never been more scared than in that moment. Not when Bellamy died, or Silas, or when Vengeance stared into my soul. I am scared now because I’m afraid to be loved and equally afraid to be unworthy of it.