Hate

Title: Hate
Author: Crystal
Summary: She wishes she hated him. It is what she desires, to feel that pitching, consuming hatred devouring her and leaving no room for anything more.
Dedication: To Daniela and Sandra, two cool Californians.

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She wishes she hated him.

With a disdainful glance and crimson anger, a slow burning mingling with emotions and feelings conjured and settling. A drug that attracts the victim, a heady, powerful elixir that slides thickly down throats and leaves one thirsty, starving for more.

It is what she desires, to feel that pitching, consuming hatred devouring her and leaving no room for anything more.

She doesn't want to love him. She closes her eyes at night to the red hangings that adorn her bedside and she sees his face. Pointed chin, piercing silver-grey eyes and a frightful smirk that beckons her, stops her in all reason and logic and lures her.

She'll hear his voice at the most unlikeliest times- that soft, silky drawl that breathes like touches on her skin. Demanding, taking her will and bending it to please him, a terrible power to wield. And she lets him, placing her delicate being in his smooth hands and praying. Praying to a God she doesn't believe in- that he will not break her with those sharp, biting words he spews.

The way he touches her imprints itself unto milky, freckled skin, a dirty mark he leaves to claim. His fingertips will circle and stroke and love her, a horrible misconception, a mirage of caring she would do without, if only she could. She'll remember and sigh into the memory of his skin against hers, shamefully shuddering with sin and guilt.

When he kisses her, she wants to die. To lay down and sleep forever and ever and never have to face the world and sights without him. When he kisses her, she can't breathe or think or live, for he sucks from her the very will that keeps her going. He molds her and takes her deep inside the core of himself to play with as he sees fit.

When he kisses her, she can't stand loving him, knowing with every kiss he is ever so closer and yet still so far. She wonders, watching his movements, hearing and feeling and kissing, if he ever would love her back.

She was always just a game to him, a set up board with its players and its pawns to manipulate and move. If only he'd put down his guards and sneers and insults and love her, the pitiful, lowly woman he uses for his own sick, twisted pleasure. That is her secret, the pathetic, horrible truth that she clings to, cinnamon eyes softening at his form.

She wishes she hated him, that she could hate him.

And she doesn't want to love him, but she does.

-end-