Author's notes are at the end.
Him and Her
And it's a new day today. The sun is peeking up at the eastern
horizon, turning clouds to pink and purple puffs of cotton candy.
The sky is a glorious array of colors, and the trees force their
leaves to mimic the display. The air is fresh and clear, crisp.
Pure. One might call it invigorating. One might not.
She is rolled into a ball in the big bed. She is on the very edge, covered by nothing but the heavy arm of her lover, which is possesively draped over her shoulders, one hand groping her breast. The blankets are all on his side; in his sleep, he tosses and turns and twists so that he gets all the comfort of the soft blankets. Every night, they end up in this same position.
And she likes it. She really does like it. All that she needs comes from him, all that she is stems from him. She doesn't complain, even though she's cold. She has curled up into a ball, mostly to keep what little body heat remains, partly to hide the vivid bruises on her fragile skin from any hidden observers.
It's silly to do that. This room was about him and her, her and him, and no one else mattered. Not her crotchety old mother, not her jealous friends, not the gossipy bitches that pervaded her life. Their words didn't matter, it was him that mattered, it was him that made the difference in her life, it was he that made her life worth living!
Even when...even when he was drunk and he called her names (he didn't really mean it) and he might...and he might get a little rough with her (he didn't really mean it) and he would...he had a temper, and he might say and do vicious things (he didn't really mean it) but he would regret doing them later and he would apologize and he would say her name in that sexy voice that she loved so well and then would come the sex and the caresses and the kisses and the "I love you"s (of course he means it) and she realized, he needed her -- and that was enough to keep her in this position again.
She shifts her position. The bruise on her left thigh twinges, and is answered by a matching bruise on her right forearm. Long sleeves today, she reminds herself, and no rolling up the sleeves. Black, of course. She always wears black when not around him. She prefers to save her colors for him.
Her eyes shift to look at him. Her eyes travel up and down his chiseled features, peaceful in his deep slumber. She loves to look at him. He has the face of a god, of a prince, of a hero. His hair is perfect. His face is perfect. His body is perfect. And yet...he still needs her.
He really does need her, he needs her to help him, because he has such emotional scars on him, and only she can help lift them. She really believes this. She also believes that when he's vicious towards her, it's because of her own fault, because she wasn't good enough for him. Because she wasn't doing enough to help him. Because she is not enough for him, and she can't help him, and he should leave her and find a real woman who can help heal him, because of course she can't do enough, but oh, if he left her she would die, because she is nothing, nothing, nothing at all without him.
Every night, she cries herself to sleep -- silent, choking sobs which will never be heard by him -- because she can't do enough, because she's so horrible. And every night, she wonders what can she do to fix him, to stop his drinking, to make him kinder and more gentle, to make him into the kind of man she dreamed she'd want when she was a little girl. And she knows she'll never succeed, because this is the man that she'll have her entire life.
The main complaint of this is that it's completely generic. I agree that it is generic; it's a stereotype. It was written to be a stereotype. The main character is completely flat; her lover is barely an outline. This was done on purpose. Because these characters are so bare, they can be applied to nearly anyone.