Love was not what they had.
He did not kiss away her tears when she cried; for she was too weak to deserve his sympathy.
He did not hold her close when she quaked in the night; for he always left her soon after he was done.
He did not help her stand; for it tasted too sweet on his tongue to see her collapse in fits of misery.
He did not hate her. He cared enough to murmur hollow words into her ear, to tell her she was beautiful when she screamed silently as he lovingly crushed her throat under his iron grip, cared enough to do it with his bare hands. An elegant smile would grace his features, a cryptic shadow would flit across his eyes as he painted a picture of pain on her pale skin, shades of blue and purple, saving his favorite color for last — crimson.
You are nothing, he would whisper to her as she struggled. My worthless little rose. She would squeeze her eyes shut and diamond tears would trickle down her cheeks. He would chuckle to himself and admire how beautifully he'd broken this toy before forcing a scream past her lovely mouth until her throat bled raw, and he would let the blood dry on her chin as he left her in her agony.
Yet, like the stupid dog she was, she always came crawling back to her master, obeying his every command in hopes that her silly tricks would earn her rewards.
But the rewards never came.
And she would try harder. She endured his tortures in favor of the delusion-born light at the end of the tunnel, not realizing she was plunging further into the blackness until it was too late.
Tears fell again as she dragged her scorched body to him, pleading, sightless eyes looking for his frigid blue ones. A slender hand reached blindly in front of her for him. He crushed it under his boot. Her wails were annoying him now, no longer the unearthly cry of his coveted pet but the whining keen of a pathetic animal.
Only the snap of her spine was music to his ears.