You drove me insane, so I thought the only proper response was to do the same to you.

I broke you with words whispered in your imperfectly pointed ears, I broke you by taking all your loved ones away and presenting only me. And the beautiful bit is, you broke. Into a million tiny pieces. I put them back together again in the way I wanted.

You look at me with dull eyes and say "Kiss me," but I don't respond.

The first time was easy; just kill Zelda. Run my sword through her fragile body and watch her crumple to the ground before your eyes. She was such a pretty blood-soaked pile on the floor. You attacked me, and when that didn't work, you sat next to her body and cried for what may have been the first time in your life.

But that wasn't enough, so I kept going. I took everyone dear to you, one by one. Every time I made sure you knew it was me. And every time I said, I whispered, "Come with me. I can keep you safe. I can offer you comfort." Playing with your hair. Touching your face.

"No," you say, tired. "Not you."

But you gave that up, too. One day you leaned into my touch (never returning it), one day you let yourself fall into my arms (never wrapping your arms around me), one day you let me kiss you (never kissing back). You tried to trick yourself into thinking you loved me because I was the only one offering you comfort.

I never loved you, of course. I just found all this amusing.