been there . . . done that . . . this is a toxic relationship and he doesn't deserve you. Run as fast as you can in the other direction and find a good therapist. Tragic but not hopeless...thanks for sharing.
|Saturday, December 9, 2006 - fin 8:32 PM
There were times when I existed. Times when I was always happy, always together, always . . . here. Alive. I sometimes wonder about myself: how I could do this to myself, when I could just completely sever any and all relations with him. But I don’t. I don’t know why. No, I do. I love him, it’s as simple as that, yet it isn’t. He’s . . . all of me, all of my thoughts, all of my emotions, all of my happiness, my sadness, what I see, what I hear, what I smell, what I feel. Without him, I don’t exist, and when he does this to me, I can’t help but feel so . . . worthless. But then he always rescues me when the moment is so . . . deep, so intoxicating, when I really want it to end. There’s nothing that I can do but fall into his arms. Again and again. This endless cycle. A cycle that will someday break me. When will he stop? When will I stop him?
I can only sigh. I can never stop him. I can never stop these feelings that just pour from me when I think about me, without him. I’m completely hopeless.
“That’s why I exist,” he suddenly says. My gaze shifts towards the door way. The lights were off; only the flashing of the television illuminated his features, always so breathtaking. Long, slightly curly, garnet red hair cascades past his shoulders, short bangs surround his pale skin, giving a feral glow to his golden eyes. Pushing back a random curl that had strayed, he smirks, and then walks slowly in, sitting in front of me.
“Sable . . . ” I heard myself say. I don’t want you here. Please leave. “I hate you.”
He just smirks again, his eyes flaring up beautifully, almost glowing in the darkness. Standing up, he sits right beside me, his long black coat hitting the floor, gathering about him. I was just about to pull away when his right hand suddenly grabs onto my waist, his left holding onto my chin.
“Seraph . . . ” he says softly, his face so close to mine and I want to push him away so badly, and scream “Stop!” but I can’t. I can’t do that because he’s actually here, and that means that he actually cares, right? He wouldn’t keep coming if he didn’t.
But another voice within me is screaming “no!”, its feelings enveloping me, telling me that it’s the same. He’s the same. Everything’s always the same. And I don’t want to believe that, because now he pulls me into himself, his arms so tight around me it seems like he’ll never let me go, not ever.
Even though he knows what I’ve done, he doesn’t look at all exhausted from running. I can feel his other hand suddenly begin to wander, finding my wrist, covered in both wet and dry blood. His head dips lower, into the crook of my neck, body softly shaking. Tears, so uncontrollable, spring from his eyes.
This is the farthest I’ve ever gone. So close to death I was, that he could feel it, like the magnetism of a magnet to its opposite, he could feel the despair and longing beckoning to him, leading him. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, to tell him that he’ll be fine, but everything was just so heavy. All of me was becoming numb now—was this what death felt like? But I could still feel the lingering warmness of the scattered kisses he pressed against my neck, the hands that tried to keep me warm, that attempted to steer me away from death’s door. I wanted him to stop crying, so that its slowly addicting call to me would end.
“Seraph,” he says softly, just as my eyes felt so heavy. His mouth opens, and he says something else, but I can’t hear it. I can’t feel him, feel anything, anymore and my vision, stained garnet red and pale white, two dabs of bright yellow at the top, mix and then fade.
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