I have no idea whether anyone would like this. But I posted the story anyway. There are two parts, the second part will be posted probably in three days.

I do not own Cruel Intentions.

Dedicated to y-x.

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She listened as the poet moved from infatuation to adoration, his delight in his goddess-like mistress seeming to lift him as far above mere mortals as the immortal gods, finding both ecstasy and peace in her arms . . . until darkness crept in.

The verse sings more beautifully as the poet descends into savage jealousy and a morbid self-loathing as his obsession with the woman begins to destroy him. In the end, his hatred for her seemed as great as his love had been. He dreamed of her death and, perhaps, desired it.

Alice Borchardt

The Silver Wolf

pg 261

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She promised a restless eternity. His mind circulates in territory. She is mine. . . . Not in body, but in soul. Brazened and copiously she did what she wanted. Behind the closed French parlor doors of course.

Madonna of depravity. I am everything.

Forget that movement, forget that page. I will write whatever I want to. Honey we're leaving soon, get away. Run away. Fly away. Snow and sun, the weather hasn't changed. I ski and I run, truly I am no good at either. Sorry, sorry, squint your eyes sweet and bare the pain. There's nothing I could do to help. I get dizzy, she says shut up. I promise you'll feel better soon. I don't like this pain. I don't want to open my mouth. I've experienced; I have character, and I know intelligence shows in my eyes.

I'm smart, then. I'm beautiful, I'm unhappy. I hit a record last week. Five days, two hours. Of sleep, insomnia, what runs my mind?

It seems as if yesterday was June.

Why do I hurt so much? No matter how many times I change it, that still word continues to exist in hatred. Bother, bother, bother me brother. I need more.

I care? No! I don't Self benefit. Listen, don't listen, confusion, gestures. Ask me I'll ask, you. Help me . . . . . ?

School started two weeks ago. Kathryn the beloved chaste Queen; Sebastian, Manchester's sensual King.

Annette? The quiet darling known as Sebastian's newest object that held his utter fascination.

Cream coloured walls were infested with elite children. Competition ran like water between them. I win, you fail, Princeton, Yale, Harvard. My father went there, so will I. Your Chanel sunglasses are crooked.

Life was simple, in comparison to what it could be.

I do not starve. He wants the sky to burn. His skin had been broken, sewed together crazily scarring oddly. A car? He didn't press charges. (Fade into each other. You would and I wouldn't. Then we might decay forever.)

Annette, he called, he cried, he loved?

Kathryn, he tasted, he craved, he bled.

A little silk black dress, the one everyone seems to own, lies gracefully form fitting across her thin body. Petite! Petite, thin, skinny, tiny, small; describe me, I am antonym to you. So sick she is. Bleached teeth, for bulimic reasons.

She says:

'Sebastian . . . .'

She whispers.

The small dots of her fingertips, her hands flitting across my chest. Kathryn's pursed lips, a little 'o' of pink succulence.

I twist and raise my face to hers.

More. More of her touch, and her feeling and her red mouth that breaks my head.

I want this.

I want it and I know no matter what that it's not mine to have wholly.

Hope is the denial of reality.

My eye's catch hers and there's nothing. Raw abyss of nothing that I can't feel. Thin fingers, indenting between the knuckles.

I search for her, I see, and I hear, and if I listen closely, I can hear her blood.

Last night I dreamt I was an addict, and this morning I knew that I was.

Part one, end.