❝I'm supposed to kill you. It's My job. My purpose. And you're supposed to kill me too! Why can't I do it? Merda!❞ I cried out as the cold piece of metal dropped from my hands with a clatter.
Lorenzo placed his large hand onto the curve of my cheek and smiled at me through the pain. ❝Because you love me and I love you too, mío amore. ❞ He replied in a voice that was no louder than a whisper.
The whole situation was rather refreshing in a way. In a corrupt world of guns, drugs and violence: our love was ironically, perfectly imperfect.
Grieved with a job to assassinate him, I couldn't bring myself to do it. The worst part of it all was that he knew he had to kill me too, but much like me, he couldn't do it either.
What were the chances of us both killing ourselves over a love that was never meant to happen?
His love consumed me. Loving him signed my very own death signature; like an addictive drug, it killed me slowly because our love became The Death Of Me.