Morning

Author's note:  How is my writing?  Are things clear?  Are there awkward transitions?  Weird usage of words or strange verbiage?  Does it suck?  Constructive critique greatly appreciated on this!


There is a ribbon of stained white satin wrapped around my wrist.  I watch you sleep so peacefully, my hand reaching out to gently trace the rugged features of your brow and cheek with my fingertips.  Your handsome face is so serene and beautiful when you sleep – untroubled, as if you own the world.  You always look like this when I lie here next to you. 

Crimson.    My immortal, if you could only die, I would slit your throat.  Strangle you.  Hurt you. Then again, I know what happens when I try.  It is why I am here in your bed.  Again.

Inhaling deeply, I smell your scent - mixed with sweat, sex and the metallic taint of blood, it is irresistible.  I can still feel the rough impression of your lips against mine – your harsh kisses forcing me to yield, although we both know how badly we wanted it.  Even now, my body longs to be intertwined with yours – an insatiable hunger every time I see you, hear your name, and think of you.  My skin burns where you’ve touched me – addicted to your roughness.  Between my legs is that all-too-familiar throbbing – the physical longing for you to use me, to fill me up and remind me of why I am still here. 

I force my eyes shut, squeezing out a single tear, and once again lock away my heart – this cursed imaginary thing that should not exist.  With utmost care, I gingerly extricate myself from your strong arms, purposefully denying myself of your comforting warmth.  I ignore the pangs of regret – of being away from you in favor of one single thing:  I hate you.

In crossing the room to get my things, a red sparkle from the mirror catches my eye.  Pausing, I stop to examine my reflection and notice the necklace you’ve placed on me.  Held by a delicate silver chain, the heart-shaped ruby contrasts sharply against my creamy skin like a shimmering drop of crimson blood.  In a flash of anger, my fist clenches around the precious jewel to rip it from my neck - a blatant act of defiance against you.  I stop. 

It looks good on me, no?

As the room slowly lightens to the rising sun, I realize it is time for me to go.  Your shirt smells like you, so I wear it.  I take my things, and leave you a gift next to your pillow: one shuriken, and the satin ribbon, stained with my blood. 

Your place fills up with acrid smoke from the flames I’ve left behind.  Outside your chambers, the corpses of your guards and staff that I’ve left in my wake burn to ash – a poignant reminder that I am not yours.  I will never be yours.

I found the shuriken you were hiding from me.  They are mine now.

This is what you get for bringing me here.  This is what you get…for making me love you.