Meeting her is a mistake.

A glitch of fate that he doesn’t fathom he could ever forgive, much less forget. Some cataclysmic careening of fate lines, fault lines; a mess of teeth marks and lipstick prints. Something that never should have happened.

Because he doesn’t frequent the bar on gritty, late weekend nights. Doesn’t wipe bloody knuckles on trousers and act as though he hadn’t just shattered a mirror in a fit of anger, bitterness, revenge on the world for everything it’s done and utterly wrecking the life that had been so carefully delineated for him, before.

It’s seven years bad luck.

He really should have known then.


She’s electric. Frenetic. A natural disaster fit neatly into a sultry smile and chin tipped back, body swaying in time to the music and caught beneath the dance floor lights. Swath of neon pink and forest green that only act to illuminate the slickness of her mouth, the length of her neck, the heart stopping, short circuit intensity of her eyes as she stares intently at him.

Tilts her lips into a daunting, daring smile.

Raising her arms above her head and letting her hair fall in a graceful sweep to the small of her back and –

It doesn’t occur to him, how fantastically wrong it all is then.

How he’s too drunk, too mad, ensnared as though by a spell, by a potion.

That fish hook smile stretches wider. She curls a finger at him. Beckoning and beguiling and he’d really been done from the start.

Their meeting is a mistake.


Their first kiss is a disaster.

It tastes faintly like blood. Is reminiscent of a train wreck in knocking teeth and desperate hands, a knee shoved between her legs as he rucks her dress up over her hips. Leaves a trail of bruises – brittle blue and bitter purple, hints of anger, venomous red seeping in the edges.

All twisted metal and wheels grinding against a track. Iron sparks and a crash, a disaster. Something messy and rushed; sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, legs wrapped like a noose around his waist, chipped tiles on the bathroom wall cracking and flaking to the ground.

Its summer.

Its suicide.

And she’s scrawling her name on his wrist before leaving. Blurred letters and a lingering promise and the first bittersweet chords of bisected fate.

Her name on his wrist.

Seven years bad luck.

He really, really should have known.