I have no idea what came over me when I wrote this, other then being sleepy. Maybe I was possed by demons or some thing? Anyways... I know it sucks but I don't think I'm able to fix it at all.
BTW, a cookie to whoever can guess who the fic's about (besides those that already know)
He could never let go of that image he has of her, the one from the first time they met. Her hair was shorter then and allowed to flow however it wanted. He'd always claimed to hate it, the way her hair seemed to have a mind of it's own and wrap around whatever it wanted. But it gave him an excuse to touch it, feel the silky softness as he untangled it from the latest ring or chair it'd been caught in.
Back then she'd looked more real, less like the painted doll she'd become. Her smiles came with a wicked laugh and faint toss of the head. So much unlike that simpering, painted smirk that never left her face.
Of course the first time they'd met he'd had to pick a fight. Neither could really recall what the fight had been about (or even if they'd even talked for starting to scream at the other) and he even missed that. At least in those days he could see her and what she felt.
Some days it felt as though the world was changing into a painted cup; everyone frozen into what they where doing. No one ever able to break away from what they'd been doing for years and always doing the same thing, feeling the same way. Over and over again until you wanted to scream for something to change, but at the same time knowing that if anything did you would be lost forever in the sands of time.
She'd come to him one day, after the smile had been painted on and her entire being turned into something it looked like anyone could buy. It was the first time he'd been kissed by her, maybe by anyone though he could never remember the past with all it's ghost and secrets. All he could feel was the coldness of it, like an actor going though it's lines for the millionth time.
And so he pushed her away and made some comment about how he never got involved with anyone and she should know it. Even though it was a lie and both of them knew that. But she hadn't been unhappy, or even show anything at all, besides that coy side of herself.
He wonders if he hasn't become like her and tries to recollect what it's like to feel anything other then anger or rage. He doesn't know if he'd just dreaming of things or if she is. All he can bring up about what use to be is the smell and feel of her hair.