Red Thorns: A Dark New Adult Romance (Thorns Duet Book 1)

Dear Yuki-Onna.

What you’re doing is completely fine. There’s a thing called rape fantasy and it’s completely healthy.

I searched it and the psychology reports say it’s the woman’s way to gain control and surrender. It’s also related to masochism, wide imagination, and a broad range of BDSM.

It can also be something someone with sexual trauma is interested in because it gives them control over a situation similar to one from their past where they couldn’t.

So it’s completely healthy. You should do what makes you happy.

Is that what you hoped I’d write back? Is that what you had in mind when you sat down and wrote me your version of a twisted sob story?

I don’t even know what you were trying to accomplish when you said that. Just what on earth are you thinking? You and whoever is indulging in this sick arrangement are perverted.

And spare me the bullshit of how this isn’t about you or that this is a hypothetical situation. I’ve known you for three years and you can’t lie for shit.

I’ve been meaning to confront you about your issues for a while, but I might as well do it now. It’s long overdue.

When you said you have friends, I call bullshit. It’s simple really and doesn’t take a lot of mental work to figure it out. If you had any friends, you wouldn’t be talking to some random stranger from the other side of the globe. You’re lonely and it’s not even cute or quirky. It’s your choice, so stick with it and stop bleeding my ears (or more accurately, my eyes) with nonsense about how people don’t understand you.

Do you even understand people? Yeah, you don’t. Because you don’t care enough about anyone other than yourself.

Here are some facts, Naomi. You’re selfish. I don’t know what happened to make you that way or if it just runs in your genes, but you have issues.

Every time you write to me, all you do is talk about yourself and think you’re funny because you’re naturally sarcastic about everything—yourself included.

When you say you hate men, I want to reach my eyeballs and gouge them out. You don’t hate men. If you did, you would’ve veered in the other direction or in no direction at all, but you watch porn.

Straight porn.

Hardcore straight porn.

And don’t even try to deny it, because I don’t believe asking for recommendations of my favorite sites every other month is a coincidence.

So, no, you don’t hate men. You just hate your inferiority complex. You hate that you can’t muster the courage to start a conversation or to lose the resting bitch face long enough for someone to approach you.

You’ve taken the word introvert to a whole different level and turned it into a hostile situation that you can’t escape anymore.

Your love for true crime and serial killers don’t make you edgy or smart, it just makes you cynical about every life situation.

So basically, even your hobbies are a method to veer you away from society and make you suspicious about everything in your surroundings.

Including your own mother. The woman you said immigrated, gave birth, and raised you all on her own.

You say your mother is always absent and doesn’t have time for you. But what do you do when she makes a dent in her schedule for your sake? You’re too uncomfortable to spend time alone with her anymore because you still hold a grudge against her.

Now, you didn’t tell me what type of grudge it is. Hell, you didn’t even mention that word. But I’m not an idiot. I know there’s bad blood between you two and you’re just taking it out on her.

You say you hate the cheer squad and the cheerleaders, but you mirror their nasty behavior the entire time. And deep down, you admire your captain because she’s everything you aren’t. You curse her any chance you get, but you’re in awe of how comfortable she is in her own skin.

Which can’t be said about you.

Not only do you hate yourself, but you’re also sometimes out to destroy yourself.

And your latest method for that is some sort of fetish about being chased and eventually caught, then raped. In what world would anyone consider that normal?

The fact that you want it in the first place should be a red alert.

Stop.

Go to a shrink and get some help.

Because you’re just spiraling out of control at this point. And soon enough, you’ll get bored of this fetish and destroy yourself by using another method.

What will it be next? Alcohol? Drugs? Prostitution?

Maybe you’ll end up in one of those psyche wards eating your own shit.

Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?

I don’t care. I didn’t start writing to you so I’d be the only audience for your pity parties or attempts to make yourself feel more grandiose than you really are.

This is me, true and unfiltered, and this is how I’m going to be from now on. I’m done playing nice and pretending that I approve of the shitty decisions you make.

From now on, you’ll get a reality check from me.

If you hate it, I don’t give a fuck. Don’t write back.

But I’ll continue writing. Don’t read my letters if that bruises your fragile ego, but I’ll keep them coming.

Go complain at customs.

Seriously. I have zero fucks to give at this point. Going forward, we’ll do it my way.

P.S. This is my actual personality. All the previous letters were me playing it down and being nice. I’ve had a wake-up call lately and realized I was always a bastard, so it’s pointless to pretend I’m someone I’m not.

Until next time, Yuki-Onna.

Love (but not really),

Akira