( shatter )
He was what she wasn't.
He felt pain, she was the cause of it.
Mirrors were an ornament to her vanity, mirrors showed him everything that was cracked and bruised and broken; all that he hated in himself.
He was a spirit, she harbored none.
His soul blazed, and she sucked it out.
Like a small, pale gargoyle, she crouched on his chest with her little body, eyes like a skeleton's. Starved and waiting. Empty casket. Everything he ever loved and was afraid of, and nothing he could feel.
He said, he's taken everything I cared for. (She knew who he was.) Go ahead. Finish me off.
Suck the life out of me. It doesn't matter now if I live or die.
And she did.
She gave him the soft, sweet ice kiss, shivery silvery lips. Vampire teeth prodding his every vein, black rivers throbbing.
Take my soul. Have it. It's yours, yours, yours.
When she was full of his blood, there were roses in her cheeks, and for the first time, he knew what it meant to be in a coffin. He saw her as though she were a newborn.
Her soul flickered palely in the shadows where she had none, and the mirror broke to all its shining pieces, a sharp bouquet of broken glass that coated her hands and her fingers and she began to cry. Slowly first, horribly, lips parted for the mirror that had been her, that had become her body.
She filled up her hands and pushed it past her lips - all the broken shining fragments - until they snared and cracked and bled profusely all the blood that she had stolen, lips split wide open.
Beneath her, he lapped it up as it fell, her stolen blood, both their faces smeared with red red red like everything they'd lost.
And they'd lost everything.