A/N: This is more of a ficlet/drabble than anything else, but I'm still quite happy with myself for finally conquering writer's block, so I hope you enjoy.
You have never known beauty in your life.
That you remember nothing of your past hardly seems relevant. You tried to recall the family in the photo, grasp once again the happiness and warmth that must have existed, but you couldn't, and so you concluded that it was a lie and didn't matter anyway.
Life for you was defined by simplicity; what felt right and what felt wrong, though you could rarely tell the difference. At most times, there was only reality. The gun in your hand, the bodies at your feet, the persistance of her gaze.
You never once questioned your devotion; the natural way your body sought hers during the night. Maybe you should have, after what happened with him. The innocent painter. Your friend. How quickly fate puts you in your place; reminds you of the path you have chosen. You should have expected it to happen again.
But it seemed like there was a glimmer of hope, and maybe - dare you think it - redemption in her sardonic smile. That the world, for just this once, would let you hold those moments with her close to you, despite what she had promised in the end. Because it hardly ever seemed to matter when her eyes were on you, when her hands were touching you, when her voice was soft. How sharp your memory is of these events; so clear even now that they feel more real than when they occurred.
But those fragments are merely illusion, as shallow and intangible as any of the happiness you've felt has proved itself to be.
She was waiting for you to mess up.
You messed up.
Your life is defined by simplicity; in shades of black, because nothing is left for you now. When at first there was the hurt and the sorrow and the hate, things didn't seem so simple anymore. But you figured it out. You will follow fate's plan for you; you have no other choice.
You have known beauty in your life.
And it was fleeting.