Illusions of Love
Disclaimer: All materials belong to J.K. Rowling
Illusion is the form of all pleasures
There was a house, and in this house was a room, in this room was a painting. A woman, maybe not even that; she looked very young. With Scarlet hair, alluring brown eyes, pale skin, soft, pink lips, and perfect, beautiful hands, she instantly stole his heart; love at first sight, as they say.
He spent hours, maybe days—he couldn't distinguish day from night, all that mattered was her; the sight, the touch, the thought of her. Love either made him crazy or brought her back to life, because she started to talk to him, touch him, and love him.
"Hello, Thomas." Her voice was soft but it rang in his ears
"Hello, Virginia." That was her name; Ginny, he wanted to call her, but decided Virginia was more mature, more beautiful. Ginny was a child's name and she was no child.
She stepped from the painting, touched his face and pressed his lips to hers. The insatiable desire she had created, could only be quenched by her touch, but only and always made him hungrier.
She kissed him, touched him. He was her slave; he lived and died with her every word, her caresses (innocent or not) pulled him farther under with no hope of ever being rescued. The desperation, the hunger, the insanity were part of the love they shared; the only thing they did share was love, he hoped with everything he had—which was not much, given that he was practically wasting away in this room; he barley ate or slept, if he did sleep his dreams were haunted by her—that she loved him as much or even half as much as he did her, but how could she, she didn't exist.
"Virginia?" His voice a whisper, hoarse because be barley used it anymore; they're conversations weren't very frequent.
"Yes, Thomas?" Her soft, delicate voice replied in the darkness.
"I love you." His voice, still a hoarse whisper, was almost pleading, like a child begging for non-existent sweets.
"I love you, as well." He was happy; she loved him, she said it. The sad reality was he made her say it, he made her say everything, the words he needed to hear; he was her.
He lost his mind, no one is sure why. Maybe he realized she didn't exist, a half-filled canvas he finished to his liking. He was found at the foot of the painting, on his knees, begging.
"Please, Virgina, don't leave me; I need you!" The tears ran down his face as he begged for everything, anything. She did not answer him, she never would. He is now alone, in a building, in a room with padded walls. Visions of scarlet hair, alluring brown eyes, pale skin, the soft pink lips he had only imagined, and the soft, beautiful hands he constantly felt on his cheeks with his tears. Illusion is pleasure; illusion is pain, but it is hard to realize one from the other.
The End.
Authors Note: It seems, Mr. Riddle, the tables have turned. I just wanted to see how Ginny and Tom were to switch places and scenarios; the story told above has nothing to do with diaries or a secret chamber.