Originally Written: July 20, 2012

It's dark and cold and lonely.

You're sitting in a corner, silently surveying the chaos you and your lover had wrought upon the flat.

A window is broken, the curtains ripped, broken furniture lying about and the coffee dripping onto the wooden floor. As you look around, you don't remember what you fought about; everything seems to be hazy. And all you could see in your mind's eye is him leaving without looking back.

You're unsure if it's the thought of him not coming back or the cold that sends unpleasant shivers through your person. The thought of him never returning scares you so much, that it triggers an array of memories you've thought were locked away.

The memory of only knowing despair and abandon resurfaces. The story of a girl who's always been a phantom face unfolds. The dance of a little girl who did nothing but wonder if someone out there could love someone like her, repeats. And it's too much.

You know you won't be able to take it if he leaves you. He's your strength, your anchor. He's your saving grace. He's your light. He's what keeps the darkness at bay.

But if he leaves, you know the darkness would come again. And it would pull you into its unrelenting embrace forever.

In a daze, you move from your little corner to reach for a glass shard. The seductive melodies of darkness sing to your depressed little heart. The sweet, sharp caress feels good against your skin. You watch in awe as scars long faded, open to herald crimson ribbons. You're fascinated by how much the blood looks and feels, that you respond to the call of darkness again and again until you stop feeling the heartache, the anxiety, the hope, the crushing feeling of wanting to believe.

You're not sure how long you've been sitting there, staring at the rivulets of blood. You're only counting the minutes until he'd come back. But the longer you count, the more it seems that he won't come back.

Footsteps quietly echo throughout the quiet house. You look up and meet his green eyes. You try to look away in shame but are not able to for his gaze pins your own blue ones. His eyes convey accusations and hurt that you know runs deeper than what you see. He looks for the medical kit you keep on hand and takes a wet cloth for your wound.

He cleans the wounds gently. His touch like a butterfly's fleeting contact. You jerk your hand away from the pain of the cleaning agent, but he his hold is firm. You let him clean your wounds. All the while, nothing is said.

Somehow, even though he knows what you've done, he forgives you. No matter the promises you've broken, he takes you back into his arms. He mutters and whispers apologies and promises. He tells you he loves you so much and that he'll always be there for you.

You cry.

He holds you all the while. He doesn't stop you from it. He knows just how much you need it, he's always known. And when you're done shedding a river of tears, he tells you that everything would be alright. Somehow, deep in your heart, you believe every word he says.

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