Author's Note: Holy crap, I've missed writing fanfiction so much... Please enjoy.
"Drowning"
He doesn't love me.
He just… wants me.
I suppose I should know better than to be flattered. But what I know and how I feel are two entirely separate entities.
Perhaps I'm just not used to it yet. Perhaps I'm just not used to the feel of his breath on the back on my neck as we sleep, just not used to the ache that leaves me wanting more each time his hands slide possessively across my bare skin.
Perhaps he just doesn't know how to communicate properly. Perhaps he loves me after all.
But I can't keep thinking like that.
It's probably not healthy that he is the only one who knows what he wants, that my thoughts are no longer my thoughts. It's probably not healthy for me to continue without knowing, to continue this relationship—whatever this is—unsure of what and how I feel.
But that doesn't stop me. That doesn't stop me from taking, from using him, just as he is using me. Taking… me…
Oh, God.
The constant assault of unsavory thoughts is unbearable, seeming to occupy my every waking moment. Even in dreams, I am unsafe. How often have I awoken, breathing deeply, disoriented and aching, only to reach beside me to find him still asleep? How often have I thought of waking him, just once, ignoring the dreadful consequences of his temper?
What scares me most is my pure lust for him. It makes no sense, ugly as he is. The horror of his face, so skeletal and cold, his body so unnaturally slender, all the way down to the tips of his fingers…. Oh, those fingers…
Everything rests in those fingers. A delicate caress of fingertip on ivory key… he makes such wondrous, intoxicating music, changing tempo and tone almost effortlessly, bringing me from wary contentment to almost begging him for more in barely a moment. Though I never beg.
Yet.
This isn't good for me. Sometimes, I pause long enough in this destructively spiral dance to wonder what others would think. What Maman would think. What Christine would think.
But that soon fades, inconsequential, nothing as urgent and necessary as this fierce and frightening kiss that leaves me weak, flailing, gasping for air.
Drowning.
God help me, I never want it to stop.
