The Flock

When I was young, I got sick. I’ll clarify right away. As a young woman, I believed that truly worthy love stories are made of suffering or the need for colossal sacrifices. That’s why my belief was so strong—because I forced myself to believe. I gave birth to a genuine masochist at the heart of a romantic, and that was the cause of my illness. I didn’t know it at the time, while living my story—my twisted fairy tale—because I was young and naïve. I succumbed to temptation and fed that throbbing monster, which with every heartbeat, every thrust, every breath greedily wanted more. Tripple Falls was nothing like it seemed at first, just as the men who took me under their wing were not what I thought. But to be with them, I had to become a co-conspirator in their secrets—secrets that cost me everything. That is the unusual thing about fiction compared to reality: you can’t live through your love story again, because it ends the moment you realize you’re living it. At least that was true for me—and for the men I trusted with my foolish heart. After so many years, I’m convinced that it was the illness itself that made me bring my story to life. And everyone paid their price.