It's Not The Romance, It's the Crime

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(M.N.I.Y cont.) So, that little family I had built in my head, was a fantasy world. I had taken bits of what I had observed definitively, added in a few suspicions, played it out day by day, until certain events made me rethink my position on a matter, and then maintained as much of that base element as possible, while working every way around it. Looking back, I think to highlight my mistake, the childish notion that shattered that level of reality, I should explain what I mean, by settling for simmering hatred. My fiancé was a well meaning game nerd, highly observant and a damned good judge of character. He had never been cruel outside of boyish, somewhat gross humor he just hadn't grown out of. Aside from that, he was a good young man. My boyfriend before him though, was the kind of boy who would tear a girl apart, and find a sick romance of putting her back together again. I was never ashamed to admit that a part of me deeply enjoyed it too. I knew what he was doing, and where he wanted my mind to go. There was a kind of magic to it. Chaos had learned my darkest secrets, and conquered my dreams at night. I lived and breathed for the manipulative torment, until time and time again my loyalty was met with disregard. Still, a wizard is at his best in poetry. I remembered the talks of past lives, the allure of dark magic drifting at the edge of that reality. I had developed a perfect addiction, not to the boy, callous and cruel as a banshee, but to the magic. And what magic to behold in the honor of a sniper. We choose what we imbue, and honor is a talisman so few have truly mastered. I asked our executive chef once: "What makes a god any less real from one religion to another?" His response? "A God is only as real as you believe him to be." This led to a conversation about past lives, where Lemmy said that he believes there is something to when you meet people, and things just click. Somehow, someway, this person was involved in one or more of your past lives. Even if it was just the baker you would see every day before you worked in the fields, they were there, and a part of you still recognizes them. I've held onto this belief. It's beautiful, and deeply romantic. Unfortunately, there were a couple of unintentional correlations between my definitions and interpretations of magic and honor. I say this is unfortunate, because my mind suddenly developed an inappropriate attraction to a well meaning gentleman. I felt a closeness and a sort of care that I was unaccustomed to, with the added seduction set in place by my past addictions, I made the mistake of letting it continue to evolve within my fantasies. A girlish crush had become a debilitating, slow burning ember driving me to do silly things in the hopes of being close to, and impressing this older male. A part of me justified it as a need to succeed. I was learning a fair range of life skills and culinary tips and tricks from him. Eventually, I worked myself from hostess, to server, and then begged to be let into the kitchen. I was fed up with being reprimanded for helping the chefs when we were in a rush, or when they had to prepare for a banquet that night. I got my wish. I was soon hired on as a prep cook, well enough though I got a bit carried away sometimes. Eventually, I found myself only working one, maybe two days a week. Although I lived in a two bedroom apartment, with just my fiancé and my brother, I made just enough to pay the bills. Without the hours I'd had before, I couldn't feed my "weird odds and wigs" habit, and could barely afford food. So, as any logical person would do, I got a second job. It was only a month before I quit the hotel and became a new resident of a nearby sandwhich chain who had just begun to establish themselves on the east coast. I was there for the opening of the store, with my fiancé mother, Lavendar. There's a whole other story for how she got there...