Page 52 of Sweet Poison

Magic is everywhere…

She’s wrong. Magic is not everywhere but there is magic in her. Just her.

Beautiful Willow.

What is it about you? Why is it that I can feel nothing when around everyone else but with her I feel every emotion? Good. Bad. Every single one.

While I was walking towards the beach, I felt eyes on me and when I looked up there she was dressed in yellow pajamas with her hair loose and closing in the wind looking down at me from the balcony of her suite.

I saw her even from a distance. I knew it was her.

Then I remembered how she looked while surrounded by the bioluminescent fungi glowing in hues of blue and purple and the fireflies dancing around her like tiny sparks of magic.

If I close my eyes, I can see her. Her wide eyes take in everything with childlike innocence and excitement. So pure and so sweet. So, her.

I can even feel her lips on mine even if we didn’t kiss. Her breath on my skin and her lovely scent. I feel her everywhere.

The image of her beautiful face close to mine lingers in my thoughts as I strum the strings of my guitar. The notes rise and fall, a melancholic melody that mirrors what I feel right now.

Too fucking much.

Sometimes we get so caught up in our pain and fears that we forget how much wonder and magic there is in the world— in us. Magic is everywhere, waiting to be seen, felt, and embraced by you.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the music flow through me. The gentle breeze carries the sound of the guitar out over the water, mingling with the waves.

I get lost in the melody until the peace I found is shattered by the insistent buzzing of my phone.

Annoyed, I open my eyes and look down at the screen to find a flood of notifications. I should throw the damn thing in the ocean and forget the shit outside my resort.

But I can’t I won’t.

He won’t break me. Not more than he already did. No one ever will.

I scroll through the notifications to see news media and social media platforms overflowing with more bullshit headlines and fabricated stories about Milton’s death.

Each notification is a reminder of the shit that has erupted in the wake of his death. The man was a nobody and yet the media is portraying him like a saint and me a villain only because they can. Only because they need me to be the villain so they can make money off of it.

I’m starting to wonder if what Remi and Perry said it’s true. If it’ll really blow over and the media will find another poor bastard to vilify so they remain relevant.

I clench my jaw, trying to steady my breathing as I swipe through the endless stream headlines. The distorted stories paint a picture of scandal that is far from the reality of whathappened. They exploit his suicide for clicks and views, turning my personal life into public spectacle.

Motherfucker.

I hope you’re burning in hell. You abusive piece of shit.

Placing the guitar on the sand, I read through the comments—so many people speculating on shit they have no way of knowing. They construct wild theories and pass judgment from the comfort of their screens as if they knew my brother. They know nothing. They don’t even know me.

I try to act like shit doesn’t bother me and at one point it didn’t but lately the weight of it all is starting to become suffocating, and the lies make my blood boil.

Taking a deep breath, I try to push aside the rising anger.Don’t give in, Madden. They’re no one. Nothing. You’re Madden Hunt.

I need to ignore the useless drama and focus on the things I can control. Just that. Fuck everything and everyone else.

Tired of it all, I silence the notifications, putting the phone aside. Just as quick the buzz of the media frenzy is forgotten and replaced by the calming sound of the ocean reminding me of what truly matters.

And the media doesn’t matter.

The fake fans don’t matter.

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