The picture was gripped firmly in my clenched hands. The glass within the ornate frame had long since been shattered, and now only jagged pieces were left to protruded at odd angles from splintering wood.
Another salty tear splattered against the damp photograph of a smiling girl and the love of her life.
My fingers tightened and turned white as blood was no longer able to properly circulate through them.
I hated doing this to her, pushing her away like I didn't care. What else could I do? Telling her to leave hurt her... but staying with her would kill her.
You could tell her the truth.
That voice again, a conscious they called it.
I called it the voice of Hell.
She wouldn't believe the truth anymore then I believed this would end well.
Again the picture discovered the glory of flight as I heaved it across the room. The frame had barely escaped my fingers and I already regretted throwing it.
In the end it would only mean I had to get up to retrieve it, so I could look once more at the girl within, her happiness caught forever in a single frame, and hate myself for what I was doing to her.
But I had no choice.
I was doing this for her.
She would never understand how much it tore me up inside when I had to stare into those hopeful blue eyes and tell her that I did not love her. That we were over and could never be together.
I stared down at my hands, turning them over to examine bloodied knuckles and half formed scabs. The wall beside me streaked reddish-brown where I had taken out my frustration.
I wanted nothing more then to pick up the phone, which was glaring mockingly at me from across the room, and tell her how much I loved her.
A heavy feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach kept me rooted to the floor where I sat.
I buried my face in my hands and let out a muffled yell of pent up anger and pain that was bording on the line of unbearable.
The first time the dream had come, I believed it to have been just that... a dream. A startling one that had jolted me from sleep, drenched in a fitful sweat and leaving me feeling even more tired then when I had laid down hours before.
After a week of consistant, and foreboding, warnings I knew that it went deeper than bad Chinese before bed.
Much deeper.
A knock on the door broke me from morbid thoughts, thoughts I never believed would enter my mind.
I forced myself to my feet and in a zombie-like fashion shuffled to the door.
More insistant, abnormally loud knocking occured before I managed to throw all the locks and jerk the door open a bit more impatiently then I might have otherwise.
My eyes widened just a bit. Usagi? What are you-