There was a layer of dust over her heart. It sometimes surprised her, every time she felt it there. Every time she reached out and touched it, her fingers came away covered in a fine film of lovers past, and it took her off guard. She wasn't the type to hold onto them, she barely thought about them at all. But the dust remained. Undisturbed for years, despite attempts, despite her own occasional proddings. And then he came along and left fingerprints.

Was he worth it? She was reasonably sure, that at this point, she was fixed enough, that she had healed enough to make finding someone else not impossible. Someone who would be easier to deal with, someone who enjoyed boats and children, and having three cats without being pressured. Someone that she could, in theory, be rather happy with. On the other hand, would she be complete without him? It was a question she felt bad for contemplating, for summoning into the forefront of her mind. It was a question she asked anyways.

Once upon a time, he had trusted her. Once upon a time, he had let her in. Once upon a time, she hadn't had to force it. She was so lonely.

Staying had been a bad choice. She had loved him--still loved him--more than anyone she had ever met in her entire life. She would always love him, and he would always love her, and they would always be in love. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough, but she stayed anyways, and it had been such a bad choice. Freedom had been within her grasp, she could have had everything. Eventually, if he loved her like he said, he would have come to meet her. They would have been together, and had children, and grown old. He could be cranky on the porch and she could bring lemonade to her grandchildren. But she stayed, because being away from him was too hard, so she couldn't go. And that was her undoing.

It was only home when he was there and he was never coming back. Her house was big and empty and she hated it.

Her eyes, full of rage and tears, stared him down from across the clearing, the bright moonlight providing a contrast. "It was my sacrifice to give!" She shouted, torn apart by confusion and a sense of betrayal that didn't quite make sense. One day she had died. Another day, she lived again. "It was mine!"

"Are you scared of me?" Her arms were wrapped tightly around his midsection from behind, and her head was resting on his back. Her voice was muffled, but the rest of the room was silent. "...Yes." She let out a quiet sigh, lifting her head just so, pressing a small kiss to the back of his neck. "I'm scared of you too."

Here we go again The dark, angry feeling was back again, and somehow they would pretend to fix it again, and they would seem happy again until they were back at the beginning again and here we go again

She remembered the first fight they ever had. It was the first time visiting his parents, her first time meeting them. They were nice, and warm, and overall kind people. And she hated them for it. He had noticed the change in her almost right away. Throughout supper, she had been barely contained, polite with an undercurrent of biting remarks. The kind you were sure were meant to hurt, but disguised as a compliment. He couldn't figure it out. After supper, he had taken her by the hand, waving off questions from his parents. We'll join you later, he said. You go ahead and start the movie. And then he took her upstairs. She was sullen, and silent, turning her head away from him as he tried to ask her questions, as he tried to pry, just a little bit into her mind. More than once, he took her chin, however gently, and turned her head back to face him. It was nearly a half hour of questioning before he finally got a breakthrough of any sort. "Because they have a box in the attic, and it has your name on it." He knew almost immediately what she meant. A box in the attic with his name on it, presumably filled with all the little mementos of childhood days past, and reminders of what he once was like. His parents kept things like that, so they would remember the bouncing baby boy, the worrisome toddler, the excited ten year old, the adolescent phase when he had blue hair and piercings. And she was jealous. Nobody had cared that much about her growing up. Nobody wanted to remember her. As she turned her head away, he sighed, wrapping his arms around her, and kissing her forehead. She made a feeble attempt to push him away, and was surprised and disappointed when he let her go, standing up suddenly. Come on, he said, come with me. Holding out his hand, it was all she could do to take it, and stand up again, letting herself be led out of the room. A short trip down the hallway, a longer trip up a set of hidden stairs, and she found herself in an attic, everything covered in a fine coating of dust. He let go of her hand, moving over to a box, one of the ones closest to the opening in the floor. Kneeling down, he pulled his worn leather wallet from his back pocket, fishing something out of it after a few seconds of fumbling. Now entirely bewildered, she watched him. He had to be doing something, but hell if she knew what it was. He blew some dust off the top of the box, before pulling the lid off. She knew what the box was as soon as she saw the inside. It was his box, she could see the bronzed baby booties from here. Before she could force herself into an angry reaction, he set something down in the box, a picture. A picture of her and him. There, he said, a silly grin on his face. You have a box now too. She said it was only dust in her eyes. After all, she never cried.

It all comes down to this. He was a liar. That's all she could say about it. He was a liar, and she couldn't believe that he had ever loved her. After all, if he had loved her, she wouldn't be in this situation right now, would she? Alexz stumbled a little, a combination of her heels catching a crack in the pavement and the alcohol interfering with her brain, which in turn interfered with her balance. Which wasn't her fault. It was his. Stupid Daniel, and his stupid ideas, and his stupid dreams, and her stupid rose coloured glasses. She wished she could've taken them off gradually instead of having them smashed. But all of that paled, utterly and entirely paled in comparison to one thing. She couldn't get the image of his dead body out of her eyes. He had promised he would never leave, but in the end he had just lied.

He had four tattoos. All four of them were because of her. She kept track of them in her head, and sometimes, when he wasn't looking at her, she searched his body over, looking for them, even when they were hidden. One was a stick figure, clearly feminine, beautiful in it's simplicity, with a pair of angel wings, and a little halo. The caption said "we love you." It wasn't big or complicated. Just a little sign on his wrist. She didn't have to ask what this one was for, she knew it the moment she saw it. The baby girl they almost had, the daughter they never got. One was a star, on his other wrist. At first glance, it seemed like a simple star. The lines weren't very straight, and it was by no means perfect. But you looked closer...You had to look very close, she knew this, otherwise you would miss it. The lines that made up the star, all said the same thing. The name "Daniel" over and over and over again. For the little boy they did have, the perfect little angel that she knew would always have her heart. Those two, at least, she could understand. It didn't matter what they did, their children were forever, and ever. The rational was a little bit better. But she still thought he was an idiot. And the next two...those were the ones she didn't understand. One was a small little evergreen tree. He said it was for the Christmas that she finally came home to him. She told him he was an idiot. A tree? Who puts a Christmas tree onto their shoulder? Didn't he know what forever meant? Forever was an awfully long time to have such an awfully stupid thing forever branded into his skin. The last was a heart. It had her intitals in them. Not "M", M was for her nickname, he told her. He loved the real her, the girl behind the illusion, not the one she liked to pretend to be. No, "M" had a cold, hard heart, but "V"...now there was a girl worth loving. And so, "VB" sat safely inside the little heart. At first, she had pointed out to him that her last name began with a "P", not a "B". He had then pointed out to her the ring sitting in the black velvet box. It was a girly tattoo, if she ever saw one, and a fact that she never failed to point out. Ah, he said, but he was manly enough to get a girl tattoo, wasn't he? It was usually after a comment like this that he gathered her up in his arms, and kissed her senseless. Well. It was hard to argue with something like that. But still, she argued, it was permanent. No matter what he did, it was always going to be there. He couldn't get rid of them. What if they ended? Was that what she was afraid of? he always questioned. Such a stupid thing to get worked up over. He said forever. He meant forever, none of this bullshitting around. Nah, he knew it was permanent. He was glad it was. Was forever a scary word for her? A tattoo wouldn't allow her to disguise herself so easily, it would force her to put a little bit of herself out there, on the line for all the world to see. But sometimes, at night, when the house was quiet, and his breathing was steady, she traced her fingers around the little heart and chewed on her lip. So this was what forever was about? That was what it was like to feel something for someone so deeply, so incredibly passionately that you were willing to risk a bit of skin and a lot of courage to put it out there for the world to see? Forever... Forever sounded nice. It looked even better traced against the back of her neck in delicate, solid black letters.

Sometimes I like to write because the characters in my head are too big, too dramatic, too much to stay there. Sometimes I like to write because a piece of music inspires me, a piece of art sweeps me off my feet, and I want to create, I want to bask in the glow that is life, I want to make something. But most of the time I write because I simply can't not.