This has to stop.
It's become a mantra that repeats over and over again whenever she lets it happen. A weakness after all, and something she should have learned years ago. No matter how many times she buries her heart, it seems to always be looking for that happy ending that she knows will never come.
Love is an unhealthy obsession of hers that should be dropped.
The mere idea of it is a drug though, and like a faithful addict she'll keep going back and try to get her fix despite her better judgment. Problem is, she can never get her hands wrapped around it and has been in withdrawal for years now. Even in this new world, hazy and frozen, her happy ending escapes her.
And she looks on as the instrument of her destruction stretches languidly in the harsh grey light of a Maine morning. The crisp white sheet falls from her body, exposing expanses of skin that called out to be touched. To be stroked and caressed. Bitten and scratched, because perfection like that doesn't belong in this imperfect world.
Faint red lines follow the curve of her shoulder, but don't satisfy that need since they'll be gone in just a few hours time. Dark brown eyes follow muscle and bone as it carries the blonde across the room, picking up scattered clothing that normally wouldn't be there. Watching all that perfect skin covered up by denim and cheap leather.
With the slide of the metal badge on a belt, the blonde prepares to leave. Green looks into brown, a gentle gaze meeting the closed off expression of the woman still under the sheets. Striding over and leaning towards the Mayor, she captures red, red lips.
Eyes closed she can't bear to watch the Sheriff leave her bed. So she keeps them closed long after she hears the click of the door closing and the chill of the morning has crept into her. There's a hitch in her chest but her eyes are dry.
This has to stop.