![]() ![]() I learned I quite enjoy the taste of brutality on my tongue. He’d plucked me from the streets and promised a life of luxury, if only I could get my hands a little dirty.īut, like all other things, it snowballed out of control. Working for Rafael Ricci, the don of Boston’s-at one time-premier crime family was never supposed to be a permanent thing. Where the violence coded into my DNA could be satisfied, the parts of me aching for death and destruction sated. Somewhere I could go and not lose myself in the lack of absence of noise. Said my brain had wired itself to short-circuit under certain stimuli-sometimes, simply the existence of stimuli at all. My peers in college, and later my colleagues, dubbed it a psychological disorder. Learned to seek it out in times of chaos, a force to ground myself in. I fell in love with the innate stillness of it-the calm it provides, the secrets you can wedge into its depths. With each interruption, nurses entering to draw blood or family members coming to offer false moral support, my body craved the void. The kind found in sleepy hospital rooms, hidden between the dull, intermittent beeping of an electric monitor and the steady drip of an IV bag. ![]()
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