Harshly illuminated in the darkness, I huddle in a corner before his downward gaze. I feel his compassionless stare, even through the distance.
My cheeks glisten, raw and soaked in my sorrows. Their stinging does little to distract me from his inflicted pain.
Hugging my knees to my chest, surrounded by his weapons, I fight the urge to run to him.
He is my twisted salvation.
Ragged knives and serrated blades dangle with menace. At every blinding glint, I recoil.
If I try to reach him, they wound me.
When steps back, they fall upon me.
When he speaks, unforgivingly, I am seared by his weapons.
His devoid voice reaches me.
Searching the darkness, I find his dimly lit figure slowing toward me.
The blades retract. The light softens.
He touches my face and tells me that he loves me, warmth lingering after his touch.
A sob escapes and sorrow glides undisturbed down the contours of my face, along my neck and onto my chest.
He recoils at the sound of my need.
It echos around us.
The blades lower as he retracts.
As darkness envelopes him, timely with the last click of his footsteps, his razors fall.
Once more, I am wounded.
I release my sorrow. With every rip and tear I am consumed.
And I realise, as he tears himself from me, I am huddled because I am afraid.
Of him.

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