A/N: I edited in a couple sentences for clarity (based on a review from The Obsessionist).
Disclaimer: Not mine.
I am broken.
Lying in the darkness, she wallows in self-pity. She tries to stop, wishes so hard that she could regain control, but she can't. The tears flow down the sides of her face, soaking into her hair and the sheets beneath her head.
I am pathetic.
Her body heaves with wrenching sobs, and she gasps for air. Her face contorts with pain, but where it comes from, she cannot tell. She can't think, can only cry and cry. She feels weak. Idiot girl.
I should feel lucky.
She finally finds the will to get up, but though she washes her face and goes about her household duties, she is on the verge of tears every second. She tells herself to be thankful because anyone else would have run away a long time ago; he stayed. Even though he becomes frustrated and angry and says mean things and yells and neglects and hurts and isn't always there.
He stayed. Shouldn't that be enough?
You want me to fix myself.
She starts to prepare dinner and thinks of what happened. It hadn't been much, she remembers. He had only said that he couldn't take her out that night like she had wanted. It was for a good reason: a new group of cursebreakers had just come in, and he had to help train them. But all the same, she felt the tears welling up in her eyes. She had tried to turn away so he couldn't see them, but she wasn't fast enough. He had sighed and asked why she always had to make him feel so guilty. She had tried to brush it off as nothing. He wouldn't let it go. He became angry, called her selfish, told her he had already spent enough time with her, ordered her to control herself, to fix herself, stormed away. She did the only thing she could do: cried. How can I fix myself? She tried not to blame it on him and his gradual but noticeable change from the playful, optimistic man she had married; how his monthly surrender to the animal inside of him had taken its toll on his human personality. She blamed it on herself, because this wasn't the first time. Everyone saw her beauty, but only he knew the weakness behind the mask.
I don't know what's broken.
A soft pop sounds in the living room. She freezes. He's home early. She waves her wand at the dishes, and as the table sets itself, she is determined to remain cold and aloof. She hears him enter the kitchen and sit down. She waits a full ten seconds before turning to face him. But when she does, her mask crumbles. His face, so tired and drawn, is still the handsome one she fell in love with five years before, despite the scars that disfigure one side. She can't help it. She is drawn to him, as she always has been and always will be. She crosses the kitchen, wraps her arms around his shoulders, and softly kisses his cheek. I'm still in love with you.
I want you to fix me.