Thank you for the reviews...and I apologize for the long time it took me to publish this chapter.
In this chapter: This is from Lita's point of view. While it is not quite in the same format, and it does not fully start the story, it does help set it up from her point of view.
Note: I apologize for how repetitive this chapter is, preferrably in the introduction the first view paragraphs. I wrote it over a month or two, and not all at once, so the thoughts overlap.
Thank you to all those who helped this be possible, even though it's only a very short addition.
And thank you to my beta reader...even though she hasn't actually read this yet, lol.
Disclaimer: I don't own Lita, but man if I did the things that I would do to that fiery readhead...
She merely glanced in the mirror, ever more afraid of her own reflection. In it was reflected not merely the image of her own startlingly beautiful features, features which mesmerized others (which mesmerized him-no! She must quit thinking of him...) but instead it reflected her soul; through her eyes. Her mesmerizing eyes.
Her hair slipped out from in front of her face in a turn of her head and try as she might, she caught her own image in her peripheral. She couldn't help herself. She glanced. And, just like all the others, she was mesmerized.
She stared deeply at her dark hazel eyes, eyes turned a bright green color from the tears now staining her cheeks, tears she was still unaware of being preoccupied.
She was tortured, caught betwixt agony and ecstasy, as she stared ahead, her ind unable to encompass the endless blackness held there, the endless yawning chasm fated between Heaven and Hell.
She stared into the Abyss.
She stared into her soul.
Lita was neither sure when it had begun, nor what had caused it.
She only that for some reason, at some point in recent history, (or longer, unbeknownst to her), had begun the slow degradation of her mind.
She had still maintained her quick wit, her striking intelligence, and her unparalleled ring psychology; however she knew something must be off, and credited it either as early menopause, mental illness, or late-striking severe mental retardation.
What other reason, she pondered, could bring about these new, uninhibited thoughts of her ex-husband?
Nearly two years had passed since she had even spoken to him, avoiding him at any cost.
It was not merely out of hatred for all the pain that he had previously caused her, but out of fear of all of the old feelings once again dug up.
The passion he inspired within a mere glance, his hot breath tickling her neck, his fingers lighting her skin ablaze, sending shockwaves down her spine to deep in her abdomen, alighting all the nerve endings, passion returning back in a flaming wheel of ecstasy to be reflected in her eyes.
What he mistook for hatred was merely passion.
Passion buried so deep inside of her for so long it slowly became entwined with her soul, so much though that after all these years that it was still festering inside her she could hardly distinguish it from herself in the moments when its presence was suspected, such as in a brilliant flash of light or otherwise.
That is why she could remain oblivious so long to the feelings, not acknowledging it even now, discrediting it to nostalgia, loss, ponderings of her own life.
But there was an incident that no longer allowed to live in such a denial.
Once, in a dream.
She often slept troubled, as she had her whole life.
This only exacerbated so by the blanket hog, over-snorer and overly-sexually-active creature that was her current fiancee.
On one of the rare occasions when they were booked on different shows, she got her own hotel room and a night of temporary reprieve, a chance at rest and relaxation.
Just around twelve, after a rather hardy training session and a warm, luxurious shower, she finally curled into the warm bed, looking forward to the peaceful nirvana of sleep that was to come.
Not an hour's mark after her head hit the pillow, she almost immediately entering into a light, needed slumber, she was awakened by one of the most frightening night-terrors she had ever experienced.
It was hardly a nightmare. No, anything but.
She had a dream of passion; but the object of her mental manifestations was not her loving fiancee, or even her first lost love, Matt, whom she would still reminisce about on occasion; no, it was that Devil, that Tempter, that horrid being she was forced to call an ex-husband.
But this is not what frightened her; after all she had gone several weeks without gratification from anyone other than her own self, she was with a selfish lover and she missed the gentleness juxtaposed with the rough, loving brutality that only her ex-husband knew how to bring, it was only natural to have fantasies of him.
What frightened her was the words which had so delicately escaped her lips, barely a whisper except to the closest spirit drifting about; the blood-curling scream that ripped from her lungs, surging forth into the night air after she realized the gentle words that she had spoken, now lost in the wind.
I love you, Kane.