scary love | dreamwastaken

prologue.

꒰ PROLOGUE ꒱
₁₁.₀₂.₂₀₂₂

SHE CAN'T LOOK at him.

No matter how many times she commands her eyes to glance at his face, she focuses only on his sweater. her fist clutches the fork in an iron grip, nails biting into the skin of her palm.

"I guess," she begins slowly, but the rest of her words catch in her throat. she shifts her eyes around before honing in on her untouched plate.

she pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath, and attempt to speak again. "I guess I should have expected this."

Lies, her mind hisses. You never expected this. You trusted him.

The light jazz music continues to play in the background. The sounds of the fireplace are loud, the flames licking and crackling against the kindled wood. she wishes her favourite song wasn't playing on the stereo, she would never be able to enjoy Frank Sinatra in the same way.

she wish the lights weren't dim and that the candles didn't emit a scent of mint and vanilla, suffocating her under this false notion of romance and comfort.

she wish that she hadn't spent all day struggling to make both her favourite meal and that he didn't serve it with the fine china her parents bought for him as an engagement gift.

Most of all, she wish she wasn't sitting here, celebrating her fourth Valentine's day with the person who is to be her future husband, having her heart stutter and shatter with every passing second.

"Babe," her partner whispers. his voice cracks as if he is about to cry, and she feels robbed. Those tears should be hers.

Not her boyfriend's. Never her boyfriends.

At this moment, she can do nothing but think. That's what she does best when she's upset or stressed or mad or angry. she thinks.

So, under the circumstance, she begins to think about heartbreak.

she had always found the notion of heartbreak to be obnoxious, dramatic, and overstated. her past relationships never left her wrecked or damaged, only mildly upset. A few bitter, lonely tears here or there, but that was the extent of it.

For the most part, the separations were constructive for future relationships. The retrospect she gained allowed her to reflect on what went wrong, and subsequently, learn from the mistakes.

But now, as she sits here, refusing to meet his devastated expression, eyes glassy with tears streaming down his cheeks, she understands.

she understands the motives behind alcoholism and substance abuse: the desire to flee from one's thoughts and misery. The unrelenting obsession to subdue the pain carved into flesh and bones.

she understands the appeal of reckless sex with unnamed strangers-a means to validate beauty, love, and security in an attempt to try and piece back a shattered soul.

When he opened his mouth again, his breath hitches and she cut him off.

"Don't, Clay." she didn't realize she's shaking until she hears the clatter of her fork against the porcelain plate. she releases the utensil and balls her hands against her thigh.

"I never meant to hurt-" he begin, and then he stop, and she stare at him.

she stares at the face she wake up to every morning. The lips she kisses when she gets in and out of bed. The eyes she gazes into when she is distracted. The nose that cradles her neck when she makes love. The cheeks that press against her own when she hug. The chin that resets on her head or should when he watch her cook or work.

she stares at him, and it hurts so much. As if every breathing is being punched out of her. As if every beat of her heart is being pierced with an unnamed object.

Betrayal, she concludes. That must be the object tearing her heart into pieces, inflicting her to this acute agony.

"Don't you say it?" The words are torn out of her in a low growl. The overdue tears continue to hide, but the rage and betrayal turning in her stomach slowly seep through the surface of her calm demeanour. "Don't you dare say it?"

The venomous tone in her words is like a dull knife carving through him, leaving painful chills and shivers in its wake. he wants to beg for forgiveness, to make his partner shout or scream or hit him. he wants to elicit some reaction, mild or dramatic-just something. Something to hold onto, to fight against, to fight for, but she's the epitome of nonchalance as she takes a sip of wine and looks at him with tortured eyes.

And for some reason, he can't help but hate her for it.

"It was a mistake. You have to believe me."

she doesn't.

he continues to gaze at her partner, at the person he truly loves. she has finally lifted her eyes and is looking at him, but she isn't seeing him, and it hurts him.

"kai, will you please say something?"

his words are barely audible, but she hears the rage as if she's just screeched at the top of her lungs. her hands are no longer shaking, but she feels broken-numb and lifeless.

"What do you want me to say?"

The question is somewhat rhetorical since there is already a plethora of questions floating in her head.

Why did you do it?

Why did you tell me?

How long ago was it?

Do you love her?

Do you love me?

"Anything. Ask me anything— say anything."

That's not what she wants to hear. Then again, she doesn't know what she wants to hear-what could quench the visceral anguish that's burning her alive.

Grabbing her silverware again, she digs into her lasagna. she chews for a long time, in the way she knows her hates. It is somewhat cathartic to rebel against him, even if it's in such a small way, and a semblance of satisfaction washes through her and helps keep her profuse emotions at bay.

she needs to keep up this façade. she can't break in front of him. she won't let him win.

Finally, she speak.

"was she at least a good fuck?"

fae ; facts

hey lol I'm mark sloan's personal cock sucker anyways tell me what you think of the prologue