Author: Amisha (me )
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Word: passion
Word Count: 278 (a bit long)
Author's note: it won't let me make things bold or italic. does anyone know how to fix that? Since i couldn't, i've put everything that should have been italic, in quotation marks. thanks.
Not Like This
Bruises, cuts. A scratched back. There was no love in it. A vase falls to the floor. Screams of pleasure. Passion.
* * *
She lies sleeping; a thin sheet is all that covers her body. He runs his fingers through her brown hair and sighs. So perfect, his little angel.
* * *
She dresses in black leather; perfect for her black heart. His little angel no more. He did this. Still does. He consumes her, and with every touch, a little more of her soul disappears.
* * *
He pleads with her. Please don’t do it. You’ll regret it. He watches her hand. Black leather gloves on steady hands. His glock. His little devil. Her eyes never leave the target. Her hand trembles. The dead young woman lies in a pool of blood; Rambaldi’s final prophesy fulfilled.
* * *
Black leather boots on crossed legs rest on the desk. He watches her, searching for any sign of emotion. He chokes as he speaks. Are you still human? Emotion he gets. His heart breaks as he hears her laughing.
* * *
His bags are packed. He won’t stay with her. Not like this. Won’t stay to watch her break, to watch evil consume her heart like it consumed his when her mother took him in years before.
She approaches him. He turns his head away. He won’t let her do this. She turns his head back towards her. Black gloves on blonde hair. Reversal. She attacks his lips with her own, digging her nails into the back of his neck. She’ll leave his body bruised and scratched in the morning. He drops his bag to pick her up in its place. Maybe just once more.
Passion.
The End
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Word: passion
Word Count: 278 (a bit long)
Author's note: it won't let me make things bold or italic. does anyone know how to fix that? Since i couldn't, i've put everything that should have been italic, in quotation marks. thanks.
Not Like This
Bruises, cuts. A scratched back. There was no love in it. A vase falls to the floor. Screams of pleasure. Passion.
* * *
She lies sleeping; a thin sheet is all that covers her body. He runs his fingers through her brown hair and sighs. So perfect, his little angel.
* * *
She dresses in black leather; perfect for her black heart. His little angel no more. He did this. Still does. He consumes her, and with every touch, a little more of her soul disappears.
* * *
He pleads with her. Please don’t do it. You’ll regret it. He watches her hand. Black leather gloves on steady hands. His glock. His little devil. Her eyes never leave the target. Her hand trembles. The dead young woman lies in a pool of blood; Rambaldi’s final prophesy fulfilled.
* * *
Black leather boots on crossed legs rest on the desk. He watches her, searching for any sign of emotion. He chokes as he speaks. Are you still human? Emotion he gets. His heart breaks as he hears her laughing.
* * *
His bags are packed. He won’t stay with her. Not like this. Won’t stay to watch her break, to watch evil consume her heart like it consumed his when her mother took him in years before.
She approaches him. He turns his head away. He won’t let her do this. She turns his head back towards her. Black gloves on blonde hair. Reversal. She attacks his lips with her own, digging her nails into the back of his neck. She’ll leave his body bruised and scratched in the morning. He drops his bag to pick her up in its place. Maybe just once more.
Passion.
The End