Ophelia [a.m]

𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊

I'd only been plotting his murder for a few minutes when I ran into him.

Tom looked down at me, brief recognition flickering before - yes - he remembered me and what I had done.

Then he smiled and I felt cold but not the same as I did with you.

His would rot me.

Not the kind that wilts - spoils, he'd touch me till my skin eats itself and marvel at his new statue of frozen flesh.

I hate him.

And I loved you.

Why do they feel the same?

My back pressed into the glass door of one of the compartments, I thought it might break.

The curtain slid down as well as my skirt and his hands were all over - dusting over the imprint of you.

My tights tore and I mewled and I hated myself more so now than I did him.

The blackness was shrinking back even more now into the crevices of the old seats of the express.

Yes, Tom always kept them at bay the best.

He didn't satisfy them like you did - he terrified them instead.

Biting - blowing - aching - arching - the creak of glass - Tom - I hate myself.

I'm so lonely.

My shirt came up and he saw your ring and the grin that stretched his face was akin to a shark.

Pulling the chain tight - choking me with it - grinding - yanking - searing - moaning.

I hate myself and I love you.

Tom pulled the chain tight and the silver cut into my skin. I wanted him to pull harder. To tear through my throat and choke on my blood.

You're thinking too much.

His eyes bore into mine - not the moon - but an eclipse.

Pure darkness and he knew and he loved it.

I love you - I'm with him - I hate myself.

I might as well carve an A into my flesh.

I deserved it.

I arch and my spine scraped and it hurts and it's bliss and he knows and he goes harder - rougher - faster - my screams silent due to his charm.

As the train zips through Scotland in a blur of white and decay outside I'm becoming undone and I want to cry.

Let it out.

He can read my thoughts and I find a strange comfort in the notion.

What happened to me?

Blood slips hot from my eyes mixed with mascara and it's a mess and he drinks it in and is tearing and tightening - he loves seeing me this way.

Tom Riddle liked me broken.

With every drive of his being into me another crack would form and he chased it - watching as the line shattered me.

I want to kill him.

I want to kiss you.

But my mouth found purchase on his instead.

He found me exciting and that disgusted him. But he covered up the fact by acquitting what he was doing as stealing from you.

He knew that you loved me - and he cherished in making me come.

My legs tremble and I pull the shreds of my tights up and tuck your necklace under my shirt and I'm black and blue all over from Tom Riddles touch - frost bitten.

His thumb traces my swollen eyes and yes -

Violent men were all that I was fit for.

Shakespeare built me for the abuse.