Love Hurts

I first noticed him one day in the coffee shop. The guy at the table next to mine suddenly became interested in something; and I followed his gaze to see what it was. The subject of his interest was a young woman who worked at the counter; I’d noticed her, myself, on previous visits. I looked back at the guy and saw his face. He was smitten, alright.

I looked at the girl to see if she’d noticed. She looked up and saw the guy staring openly. A split second after she looked at him she gave a small spasm, I probably would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching, and her expression suddenly went very cold. Curious, I looked closely and thought I glimpsed an arrow sticking out of her chest before she turned her back.

That couldn’t be right. I looked at the guy I’d first become aware of. Sure enough, he had an arrow in his chest. He didn’t seem to notice it; but then he didn’t seem to notice anything at the moment but the object of his affection. I started to muse on how weird it was, but the then the nasty laugh behind us disrupted my thoughts.

He held a bow, and had a quiver of arrows at his waist. Somehow, despite his weapons and the huge, feathery, wings on his back, nobody but me seemed to notice him. Even if you disregarded them he was distinctive. He looked to be around his very late teens, very early twenties in age; though something about his eyes seemed incomprehensibly ancient. He was blond, and dressed in some kind of tunic. Also, he was gorgeous.

Now, I have no interest in other males, but by anybody’s standards he was beautiful; far too much so to be human. Even the cruel look on his face couldn’t mar that beauty. I took all this in within a few seconds, during which he laughed again and headed for the door. Outside, he spread his wings and flew off.


I saw the cruel, winged, youth again about two months later. I was on a crowded street, and saw him taking aim at his next victim. I followed his gaze to a woman in her mid to late thirties, who was talking to her husband and two young children. The arrow struck her just as she turned her head and rested her eyes on a boy I doubt was older than sixteen. A melting expression suddenly appeared on her face.

I don’t know why, but I tried to follow the youth. I guess it was like the allure of a really horrible accident; you don’t really want to look, but you can’t tear your eyes away. The crowd seemed to melt out of his way without noticing him, but I had no such luck. Nevertheless, I managed to keep up, and I watched as he hurt victim after victim.

A husband and wife, affectionately chatting away, suddenly eyed each other with dislike after being wounded by his arrows. A teenager noticed a girl and started making a total ass of himself while she watched in disgust. An old man talking to his wife stopped mid-sentence to ignore her for a woman in her twenties. All throughout, the winged bastard cackled with glee and carefully aimed more arrows where they would do the most harm.

Then it happened. Trying to keep the asshole in sight, I didn’t look where I was going and tripped over a chair at an outside restaurant. Everything fell over with a crash, and I was suddenly the center of attention. I looked up, and right into the eyes of the creep I had been following.

He noticed immediately that I could see him, and the evilest smile I’d ever seen spread over his face. He gave me a mocking wave and flew off, his wicked laughter echoing in my ears. I knew I was in trouble.


I have studied mythology since I was very young, so I recognized the bastard. The ancient Greeks called him ‘Eros,’ which is where our word ‘erotic’ comes from; but most people today know him by the Roman name ‘Cupid.’ Eros, however, was very different from the harmless little imp made famous by Hallmark.

The later Greek legends place Eros as the illegitimate son of Aphrodite, goddess of desire, by Ares, god of war and brutality. However, in the oldest legends he is ancient; one of the first three gods born out of primordial Chaos. He was powerful; with a reputation for breaking Zeus’ lightning bolts to pieces during temper tantrums. And he was also dangerous. In one story, an oracle told his wife to-be that she would marry a winged fiend who the gods, themselves, lived in mortal terror of.

Once I got Eros’ attention, I knew exactly how they felt. He started on me the following day. I was talking to a longtime friend when suddenly; I felt a small prick in my chest and noticed that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Just seconds later, her eyes narrowed and her face hardened. I made a quick check. Sure enough, we both had arrows in our chests. Eros walked into my line of sight, pointed, and laughed. My friend stormed off.

According to the myths, Eros employed two kinds of arrows. The first variety, the ones everyone is familiar with, have a razor-sharp, golden tip and cause instant infatuation in their victims. The second have a dull, lead, tip and cause instant disinterest or dislike. Over the following months I got plenty of experience with both kinds of arrows.

Usually Eros would shoot them in tandem. When a likely person crossed my path, he shot me with a gold arrow and her with a lead. On occasion, he switched. Sometimes he would just shoot one of us, but it was always enough. The immediate effects always wore off in roughly a week or two, but by then the damage was done.

I was in Hell. My relationships suffered, torn apart by emotional turmoil. My job, something I already had great difficulties with, got to the point where I wondered if I would have it much longer. I became terrified of dealing with people in any capacity; paranoid about the inevitable stab in the chest, the change in the expression of the person I was talking to, the evil laugh only I could hear.

I couldn’t tell anyone, of course; who would believe that Cupid had it in for me? I couldn’t cut myself off from people, either. I need food and a roof over my head, and to have those things I have to deal with people. So he continued to prey on me, and I continued to suffer.

Then Eros pulled his cruelest trick. Suddenly, there was no sign of him at all. This continued for more than two weeks; and I dared to hope that he had forgotten me entirely. Of course, it couldn’t last.

I met a young woman one day, and we hit it off immediately. We talked for a long time, and things seemed to be going well. Then suddenly, in mid-sentence, she gave a familiar twitch; and that all-too familiar cold expression came over her features. Sure enough, an arrow stuck out of her chest; and an all-too familiar mocking laugh rang in my ears.

Eros mocked me in a voice that was as beautiful as he is, and that much more cutting because of it. He told me that he had purposely disappeared so that I would let my guard down. He said that he would never let me alone; it was too much fun for him to torment me.

So the agony returned; so much worse because of the brief time when it seemed like it was over. For the next few weeks, Eros never gave me a moment’s peace. He stalked me everywhere, and I nearly always felt his arrows. Desperate, I began searching for a way to get rid of him.

I combed everything I could find for references to Eros and something that could be used against him. Admittedly, most “occult” material available these days is trash, but I was desperate. Finally, I had a plan I hoped would work.

In one of the myths, Eros accidently wounds himself with one of his own arrows. If that’s true, then it means his own arrows can harm him. I next time he shot me (a gold arrow this time), I made sure to rip it out and hold onto it. Then I found an abandoned shed just outside of town and used it to set my trap.

To my delight and horror, the half-assed summoning ritual I had cobbled together worked. Using Eros’ arrow and his connection to it, I forced him to appear in the shed. Then, while he was still reeling, I stabbed him through a wing with the arrow and pinned him to the floor. Laughing, I grabbed his bow and arrows and went to work.

I pinned him down with three of each kind of arrow, one through each wing or limb. Then I got to the real point of the exercise. I kicked and beat him; I stabbed him and amputated appendages. For days I did every horrible thing I could think of to hurt him. I reveled in being able to inflict upon Eros the same kind of agony he had relentlessly tormented me with. But then I ran into a problem.

I couldn’t kill the bastard. I tried. I used his arrows; and when those didn’t work I tried other methods. I stabbed Eros and cut him open. I set him on fire. I sprayed caustic chemicals in his face. Though I hurt him badly and caused him pain, Eros lived through whatever I did to him. As he grew aware that I couldn’t give him any lasting injury; Eros became cocky again, and mocked me at every turn.

Now I return daily, but it is only to make sure Eros remains contained. I have committed the ultimate offense in any bully’s eyes; I fought back, and I hurt him. Now, whenever I come to the shed, Eros always smiles his evilest smile; which is made all the more ghastly by the wounds I’ve inflicted.

Eros never speaks now. I’ve removed his tongue, but I doubt that would stop him if he really wanted to say something. Eros doesn’t speak because he doesn’t have to. We both know the same thing.

I cannot keep the bastard here forever. One day he will be free, and healed of all his wounds. Whether it takes ten days or ten-thousand years, that day will come. When it does, he’s really going to make me hurt.