Author's Note: I've been run down, so I'll be updating sporadically, and the chapters may be a bit more twisted. Also, I'm looking for a beta. If you're interested, contact me via AIM; I'm sapientia paucis.
Habit; 12
He always breaks; he lets me set a bomb within him. When he's on the verge of explosion, his eyes close and open darker, colder. He still makes no move to stop me, and I proceed, and he falls to pieces.
What beautiful shards he produces. They're scented of cigarettes—"you smoke too much"—and shampoo; it's a paradoxical juxtaposition.
I always break him; he wants me to. I know that he could stop me easily but won't. He'll merely open and close his eyes.
Before I go, I take his last pack of cigarettes and leave behind a lighter.
