Sometimes he wondered if the feeling in his stomach he got when he looked at her was hatred, and not the love he use to pretend it was.
He knew it wasn't her fault; not really. Knowledge didn't change the anger he felt every time he looked in her eyes and saw naught but innocence when his own were jaded.
He could never stand to be in her presence long, as he use to. Instead he often found himself running away, straight into arms that held scars so like his own and staring into eyes just as cynical as his.
Sometimes he wondered when he had perfected his perfect little mask, and kept people from seeing who he had turned into.
He would sit and stare at the stars, sand still warm beneath him and think about what they would say if they knew even half the thoughts rushing around his head. Sometimes he wondered if he was crazy, or if it was normal to feel as though he had multiple personalities.
When arms wrapped around his chest and he was nestled in-between legs he sighed in almost contentment, and wondered if it mattered as long as he was loved.
Sometimes he remembered things he had said; done; seen but they were never from just one angle and he wondered just whose eyes he was looking through.
The memories sometimes made him angry; he had been such a fool after all. Occasionally he would feel a pang as faint as the memory itself and fight back tears for lost innocence.
Mostly though, they made him numb and caused time to slip away from him. He would awaken once more in random places, such as waist deep in the ocean staring at nothing, and turn to see the person always there.
Sometimes he liked to pretend things were different and that he hadn't visited other worlds and saved and killed and changed.
He never knew what brought these moments on but when they happened some people would stare at him oddly, others with almost fear and so he learned to stay at the island and away from people when he was in those odd, odd moods.
Except for the other figure that rowed out there with him, put on clothes that had been let out again and again and they would fight with wooden swords and dream of far off places.
Sometimes the funny man with the scary tools and the pristine white coat would come and talk to his angel.
He use to worry about this strange little man, but those days were long past. Occasionally he'd pick up words that made no sense to him and yet, at the same time, made him feel as though he was carrying a burden far too heavy for him.
His angel would always make the man leave and they would sit and do whatever he wanted as his angel stared at him shiningly; lovingly. There was never white around, besides those days.
Sometimes he'd catch snatches of memories that felt like a dream he both loved and hated to have. He remembered dark shapes coming from the ground and a heavy, cool weight in his hands that felt so familiar and yet terrified him.
He remembered a far less certain time where white was everywhere and he screamed and covered it with dripping red until the white was gone and tainted; just like him.
He'd scream, claw at his hair until his angel was there, pulling him against a firm chest and murmuring about 'the dream' that they both knew was reality.
Sometimes he would forget what he looked like and stop whatever he was doing to rush to the nearest mirror. He would place his hands against the reflective glass and stare as though memorizing who he was. When he would see his angel he would explain what the problem was. He had been so certain he had blond hair, after all.
His angel hung mirrors all around the house after every instance and they wouldn't mention it until the next time, but the tears he had seen shining so clearly in those aqua eyes that first time stayed with him.
Sometimes he'd pretend he was sleeping, even though it was difficult, as his angel held him in his lap and stroked his hair and whispered words that were both harsh and loving as he sobbed.
During these times he would wonder why he cried so much, and what he had lost. Other times he would know exactly what it was but the words eluded his grasp.
So he would lay there like a doll and let strong fingers shakily stroke his hair and bestow kisses and whispered words, because he figured he deserved this horrid punishment. For some reason, anyway.
For those that do not know, he has Multiple Personality Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome; both very real and very distressing to watch. All stories that should already have been out are now once again in the works.