Her beauty was mildly complex, blindingly shiny yet quite strange. Her smile was somehow both dying and lingering on, and as sweet as a cherry on his bruised lips she prided on every time. So his love had to be complete, eternal and terrifying.
Doctor: "It does no good to dwell on the past Clara. Thinking on what was and why, makes one forget to live. It pays not to dwell on the future either. Imagining what might be instead of what is. So that leaves us with the present. Dreary thought, isn't it? If it was only wrapped in paper and tied with a nice red ribbon perhaps people would take notice of it more. Makes you think doesn't it Clara? Or not; one of those. Clara, loving me isn't easy I know. I have fierce edges…I have missing parts."
His hearts were inevitable to their last beat, insatiable and obsessively brutal. His face was caring perpetually, wildly radiant and somehow uneasy. So her love had to be unwavering, unchallenged and bad to the bone.
The perpetual, unending conversion of righteous thought to strings of irrational syllables and punctuation marks, gave meaning to that chill he used to suppress during fiery conversations with himself. He felt betrayed beyond reason by his own, self-minded mouth, his confused self and the way coarse words past what he would call "good judgment" and into the open. So he judged them like no one would. He judged them with passion of a broken tree branch trying to roll away from home as far as possible. He judged them with desire of a schoolboy and his favorite crush, and with regret of an old man who never lived. He judged the way he judged them. It was too revealing in the end. He was bare.
Doctor: "Life is definite Clara. Reality is regularly inaccurate." And she knew what love was.
They clicked the pieces of their scattered souls like little black and white puzzles, and burned them together into something indescribable. They were one, forever and as such, permanently existing in some tiny bubble on the end of the universe defying all possibilities and odds.
It was a perpetual signal travelling forevermore and yet never losing its strength. It would never waver or flicker. Black as the nothingness inside broken minds of lost souls. White as the whitest sheet of salvation waving on the breeze of inevitability and chance.
Her screams will feed him. His moans will enrage her. It will hurt and it will be exceptional to the core. He will bend her and give her unimaginable pleasure, and she will scream for him. It had to be brutal, because it was them. Constantly searching for that feeling of everything and nothing. For the feel of pleasure and happiness that will bind them forever more. Because you see, not all love is gentle. Sometimes it's gritty and dirty and possessive, sometimes it's not supposed to be careful or soft at all. Sometimes it feels like teeth. And she was addicted to his poison.