breaking you

and they are broken, and they are perfect.

And they’re stuck. They’re stuck in an endless battle for control and they’ve lost what little restraint they ever had. Everything is raw and unhealthy. Everything is primal and everything just hurts and they can’t stop. They don’t want to. It’s toxic.

(she’d told him, once, that she wanted to drink poison. to know what death tasted like on her tongue. what it felt like, gliding smoothly down her throat and into her belly where it would destroy her from within. she wanted to know death.)

His friends know something is wrong and they know it’s her fault. And when he mentions her, they all stop talking and one of them might try and say something and he just doesn't want them to. Because they don’t know, they can’t know what it’s like. His laughter is hollow and frightened. It’s a perfect reflection of yourself.

(he’d mentioned in passing that he almost drowned when he was eight. that he’d liked the feeling, the helplessness, the burning in his chest. now that feeling reminds him of her.)

Her friends almost don’t care. They just shrug their shoulders and talk about themselves until she turns up with the first bruise. Then they notice and then their eyes are big and concerned and she hates it. And when they ask whose hands created that blemish on her shoulder, she honestly can’t remember. She tells them that much and revels in their horrified expressions afterwards.

(she had him followed by a private investigator. he’s quiet, and she shrugs, saying it was when they first met. there’s a twinge of alarm, but it’s dull and he ignores it. he’s used to her, now.)

When they go out - which isn’t often, these days - they look a little bit terrifying. Their eyes are dead and bloodshot and so tired. And he knows she looks a little unhinged, and she knows he looks like darkness epitomized, but they fit together so well that it just seems normal now.

(he tells her that he loves her. she tells him he’s lying and they say no more. but she carves a heart into his chest with her pocketknife, and the blood looks like hope.)