I was stupid to think he could change. I was stupid to think anything could go right. I was stupid. Maybe I still am.
I wanted to kill him when I found out. He lied to me, and even though I could see the self-doubt in his eyes, I listened. I let his voice, his comforting tones, lure me into that hole, that black hole of emotion. But I stayed. I deserved to be there, left alone with my feelings and my hopelessness.
We had met behind an old building. He had found me, actually. He found me, alone with my pain, silent and rose red. And he hadn’t made a sound. He had just led me to the light, and washed off the bright stains of my mistakes. He saved me. And I was grateful.
I had never told him why I had done it, why my pale skin would be blemished with the discolored scars forever. I never explained that I hurt, deep inside, and to see pain was better than feeling it. I never had to explain; I saw in his brilliantly green eyes that he just understood. But he never really did.