Breaking The Mirror [Edited And Complete]

Black Ocean

It's like everything that isn't him his time away from him, and everything I say that isn't 'I love you' is a distraction, because it's not the truth if he doesn't know it. Nothing is, and I can't even breath when he looks at me like everything's okay. Because it's not, it never is, and why doesn't he get it?

I was raped, almost six years ago now. I was touched, I was used, I almost fell for it again, and would have if it wasn't for him. If he hadn't of been there, I would still be with Alfred, he'd still be beating the crap out of me and letting Charlie have me. And me, I'd be eating it up, because it's contact, it's a form of love, almost, at least it seemed so at the time.

But only because I knew nothing else.

Now I do. And I'm stronger for it, just because he's alive, just because I love him, I'm better than I ever was, could be without him. His existence defines who I am now, and I'm not ashamed of it, because...I'm weak, without him. I still am, in fact, but not as much as I could be without him. I want...fuck.

I just want him to love me back. There are so many books about unrequited love it's ridiculous, and there wouldn't be that man books if it didn't happen twice that many times in real life. Those books are frauds, because words are cages meant to trap the beasts that are out emotions, but it never does, not really. It's impossible, to capture something that strong in a cage and keep it alive. Impossible. By doing so it tastes away the very life of the horrible, beautiful emotion it started out to be. Books aren't real, and even if it makes you feel a sliver of the pain loving someone that doesn't love you back, it wouldn't be able to scar you. It doesn't linger.

You'd turn the last page, say 'that was sad' and be done with it. It's the opposite with feeling it. There is no last page, it stays forever, for as long as you love that person and... after.

Books are sappy, they have happy endings, life doesn't.

I know that. I've known that since the day I was left bleeding in the back of his fucking car, for god's sake, but knowing doesn't make it easier to accept.

I just want him to love me, and it's selfish, and it makes me despise myself, to want something that he doesn't want so much. Or maybe he does. I don't know, and not knowing doesn't make it easier to accept either.

It just makes it easier to brood about for hours at a time.

The door opens, the light from the hallway spilling in and whispering across my face, and I was half asleep, but now that he's here I'm awake. I love you.

"Brat..." he mutters groggily, running a hand through his mussed black hair, and I can see the shine in his eyes but nothing more.

I sit up and look at him and for a moment I see anger in his eyes. Maybe. I don't know, I never know what he's thinking.

"Get to bed, brat, it's three in the morning," He says and I swallow and look at the ground and I hear him sigh. "You're going to school tomorrow, you know."

"I know."

"Good. Go to bed."

I still don't move to stand and I see a flash of white teeth--he's gritting them, and then he turns away and I look to the ground. I don't know what to do. I love you. I don't know what to do, because he's not acting differently, he's not sad or angry or confused or...anything.

Did I even tell him? And then he turns again, slightly, so that I can only see the profile of his face.

"The painting of the girl. Looking into the mirror. It's you," He muttered, looking straight down at me with those hard dark eyes of his, "You...fuck. You...wouldn't figure out by yourself."