She’s so fucking infuriatingly vain, isn’t she? Whatever the topic, whatever the context, she thinks everything is about her. And if you try to make it about anyone else? She’ll find a way to twist it right back around to herself.
You can’t stand her.
So why can’t you get her out of your mind? Why are you desperately attracted to her? That kind of vanity should repulse you, but instead you ache to get closer.
Well, it’s easy enough to get on her good side, isn’t it? Just praise her. Tell her everything she wants to hear.
Swallow your pride. Accept her side of every story. Let her see you trip all over yourself to worship her.
It’s worth it when she finally decides you’re shiny enough to take home with her. You’re way more pliant when you’re like this too, sobriety long gone, fawning over her.
Soon she has you right where she wants you, all alone in her place.
You’re so out of it that it takes a long, hazy moment before you register that she’s stopped peeling off your clothes, and there’s a knife plunged into your chest.
You cough and sputter your last breaths, and, well, the details of your death aren’t terribly important, to be quite honest.
It’s a shame you won’t even get to watch how she smears your blood all over herself, using it as makeshift lube while she grinds against her bedroom’s beautiful full length mirror, enjoying the company of the only lover who truly meant anything to her. Me.