You'd like to feel sorry for him. You know you should; there's a voice in the back of your head telling you that what you're doing is wrong. You're hurting him. You're using him. You know this, but you can't stop. You'd like to feel sorry for him though. It'd be nice. It'd be something. But you can't.
He loves you. That's the worst part. That's the best part. That's what makes it so easy. That's what makes it so hard. You think you should be grateful that it's hard, that it's the worst part, but you can't. You can't feel anything anymore.
You thought at first it was shock. It was reasonable, you'd been in shock before, and it felt like this. Numb, fuzzy on the edges, like you weren't really there. It'd always gone away, in the end. This didn't. You can't feel anything anymore.
Sometimes you wonder why. Eventually, you decide you must have left your emotions in Heaven, if that's where you were. You wonder if that's possible, and if it is, why, but you can't muster the enthusiasm it would take to really think about it.
You put on a front for them, your friends and family. You know they were trying to help, you know they thought you were in Hell. You know they love you. Worse, you know you loved them, back when you could feel. You know you'd love them again, if you could. So you pretend, and pray they never notice. It would destroy them, if they knew. So you hide the truth.
Sometimes, you think it would have been better if you really had been in hell. You're sure you would have been fine. You are the Slayer, after all. You're always fine; someone has to be. Someone has to keep on going. Still, you think it would have been easier if you had been in hell. Then, when they brought you back, you think you would have been able to be happy. You might have been grateful. There would have been issues - there were always issues - but you'd have managed.
And you think you might have been able to resist him. You would have been able to tell him no. You would have been able to not hurt him, because you know you would feel bad about it, if you could. You needed to feel something. You'd never have done it, otherwise. You need to live.
You know he knows it's not real. You see the way he looks at you sometimes, a mixture of pain and pleasure, because you're here with him, but you aren't really. He knows it will end. You're grateful for that, in a way. You don't want to hurt him, not really, and as long as he knows what he's getting in to, you think you can handle it. Probably. Because you know what it's like to be hurt. You've been hurt too many times. You've broken so many times you felt like you would never be complete again. But you were. You put yourself back together, slowly, painfully, because there was nothing else you could do. Someone had to fight, after all. You think you lost something during the process. Because you know how it goes; a broken dagger can be mended, but it'll never be as long. It'll never be the same. It loses something with each reforging, and you think the same can be said of you, only you don't know how you'll be put back together this time. Maybe it was too much. Maybe being pulled out of heaven was too much for you. Maybe you'll never be you again.
And it scares you.
So you use him.
You'd like to feel sorry for him. But you can't.