Page 52 of Dance of Madness

And that’s how we communicated, letter after letter, note after note.

We wrote to each other for a year, staying totally anonymous.

At first, the letters were about literature. Music. Family. Grief. The way the world could make you feel invisible, even when everyone was looking right at you.

But slowly, they…changed. We started telling each other the stuff we couldn’t tell anyone else.

The dark stuff.

He confessed he had violent dreams. That sometimes he woke up breathless,itchingfor carnage, and that although it scared him, he couldn’t ignore it.

I told him things I still can’t believe I shared with anyone. I told him my fantasies about being held down. Chased. Taken against my will.

He never judged me. He said he understood.

The letters got longer. Rawer. More intimate. At one point, we even made a plan to meet. I suggested the time and place. But then I panicked.

I told him my family was…complicated. Powerful. Dangerous. That they wouldn’t understand, and that they might hurt him if they found out.

He told me his family was dangerous, too.

I didn’t think he understood. Eventually I outright said that my family was mafia.

He didn’t flinch.

Mine too,he wrote.

After that, things shifted again.

The letters got sharper. The edges more honest as we careened toward something real and reckless.

He gave me words for things I didn’t know how to explain. I gave him every piece of myself I could through pen and paper.

And now, I’m here to give him the rest.

Tonight we’re meeting not to have a friendly chat or to see each other’s faces. We’re meetingspecificallyso that I can live out my fantasy. He’s going to show me that dark side. He’s going to let me explore it with him.

And I’m going to givehimmy virginity.

My sanity.

My stomach twists, but I’m not afraid. Not of him, or what’s coming. If anything, I’m scared of how much Iwantit, and him. Whoever he is.

It’s probably stupid. Dramatic. A little pathetic.

Maybe I've confused connection with obsession. Maybe I've built something up in my head that won't exist after this night. But I don’t think so.

Either way, it’s too late now.

I pull the note from my pocket again. It’s folded and refolded, worn at the creases. His last words to me burn into my eyes:

Come alone. Come ready. There’s no turning back. If you run, mean it.

My throat is dry as I tuck it away.

I want the chase. That’s the scariest part.

I want the roughness. The hands that don’t ask permission. The game that feels like it might notquitebe one.

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