Summary: (Oneshot) It was an utterly cruel twist of fate, that the one man who had done this to me - removed the blind I had pulled over my own eyes, forcing me to realize how empty my life was - was the only one who could fix it.

Notes: I'm pretty sure this has been done before, but this one phrase jumped into my head and wouldn't get out. So I decided to write a quick fic to go with it, and this is the result. Enjoy!

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye, or any of the characters.

Addicted

I sense his presense before I see him, and I know why he's here.

The same reason as all the other times, throughout the past two years. There's no pretense. No words as he silently crosses the room and captures my mouth with his own. I kiss him back. Passionately. Desperately. Roughly.

Gentleness isn't a word that exists in our relationship.

It's a horrible cliché. Hate and love collide, meshing until you aren't able to tell one from the other. He hates me for screwing up his job. I hate him for ruining my life. And yet, we both love what we do to one another.

No, I don't love him. Our lives aren't some custom-made fairy tale of the good girl falling for the bad boy. It's something I have to do. An ironic necessity. I wish I could live without it. Without him. But I can't.

Well, I could literally, but my life would simply be a hollow shell, empty of any real passion or feeling. I would live a half-life, going through the motions, forever numb inside. It's bad enough feeling that way only when I'm not with him.

And he is the only one that can make me feel this way. God knows, I tried so hard in those first few months to find anything that would make me feel just one real, true emotion. But nothing - no one - else worked. It was an utterly cruel twist of fate, that the one man who had done this to me - removed the blind I had pulled over my own eyes, forcing me to realize how empty my life was - was the only one who could fix it.

He rips open the front of my shirt, and I do the same to his. The rough sound of fabric tearing fills the room, coupled only with the clinking of buttons against the tile and haunting echoes of labored breathing. His teeth graze the inside of my lip, and I moan.

Sometimes I wonder, if he didn't need me as much as I need him, would he kill me? Maybe.

And, in a way, he does.

Because each and every time he touches me, I die a thousand tiny deaths. It kills me, what I let him do to me. It kills me to know that I crave his touch like an addict craves his drug. I'm addicted to him.

Because after I die, I can live again. My numb existense fades away, and finally, I feel life. Real, burning, heartwrenching, life runs through my body. His kiss breathes forgotten fire into my frozen veins.

He slams me up against the wall, and the sex is far from a gentle lovemaking. It's harsh, animalistic. A scourging of the body and soul. Tears flow from my eyes, and there's a rhythmic thud as my head bangs repeatedly against the wall, but I don't care. I need this.

I need him. I need to live.

At his harsh command, I open my eyes, and his icy blues pierce into my own. It's over far too quickly, and I savor every feeling, commit every single second to memory, knowing that he will be gone soon.

And as soon as he leaves, the life will drain from my body as surely as if I slit my wrists. I will become a robot again; numb to everything, until he returns.

Because, as much as I hate it, as much as I fight it, he's it for me. He's my drug. My poison. My enemy. My ecstacy.

My life.

end