André Zen

He's got it all. The cheerleader, the little whore from English class, that sweet nerd pining after him and Mrs. Gold who he fucked last Friday. He's got just as many women in the palm of his hand as his daddy has dollars in the bank.

He's flawless, the quarterback, the idol, the unrelentingly cruel heartbreaker. And he's broken you too, hasn't he? He's embraced you tight, whispered sweet nothings into your ear and kissed you goodbye before bending you over and kneeing you right in the chest, where your fragile heart lies.

He's ruined you, your reputation and your integrity. He's stripped you of everything you held dear. And sweetie, if you ask me, I don't blame him. Because in you, he saw his forlorn mother. He saw his mother, a woman his father used as a ragdoll. A mother who had been bent backwards, snapped in half and reconstructed once again. He saw a woman he could control. And you let him, didn't you? Because you thought he'd turn out to be different.

But love, don't you see? Like father, like son.