(no subject)
Sometimes she kills him. Sometimes she really, really kills him. Sometimes she fills him up with so much electricity that his body becomes paralyzed with pain and the smell of burnt flesh lingers in their little apartment for hours. Sometimes, usually the times she kills him, she leaves their little apartment and disappears for hours without warning. When he asks why, she sometimes says that she has to leave because she hates him too much. She sometimes says that she hates herself too much. Sometimes she says nothing at all.
Most of the time, she unconsciously curls herself around his body in the middle of the night, no matter how much she doesn’t want to or how afraid she is of needing him so much. Most of the time, she holds on to him tightly when he has to leave their little apartment, arms wrapped around his waist and face buried in his sweater, she reminds him of the sweet little girl she could have been. Most of the time, she clings to him and quietly begs him to forget about his father and about the Company and about everything but her and their little family. Most of the time, when he tells her not to worry and that he will be back soon, she tells him in a whisper that she loves him too much to let him go. Most of the time, she whispers that he should love her too much to leave. Most of the time, she cries before he is even out the door.
Sometimes he specifically uses her daddy’s ability just to break her heart. Sometimes he sits on the living room couch with her, carelessly changing the remote solid gold and back again, just to see the look of anger and betrayal creep up in her eyes. When she cries and screams and begs him to tell her why he fucks with her like that, he sometimes laughs in her face. He sometimes says nothing, leaves the room, and lets her cry all on her own. He sometimes apologizes, only sometimes.
Most of the time, he watches her while she sleeps. Most of the time, he can’t help but stare at her and, even if he could help it, he still would. Most of the time, he spends hours marveling at her beauty, tracing the fine curves of her body, memorizing the shape of her lips, defining the exact shade of her hair. Most of the time, she wakes up, stares sleepily at him, and asks him what he is doing. Most of the time, he says nothing and kisses her tenderly on her perfect lips. Most of the time, he gathers her up in his arms and whispers sweet nothings in her ear until she falls back asleep. Most of the time, when he is completely positive that she is sound asleep, he tells her exactly how much he needs her, how important she is to him, and how much he loves her. Most of the time, she doesn’t wake.
Sometimes she does.
Always, they aren’t quite sure what to call their relationship. What to call the electricity that always seems to spark between them. What to call the need, the hunger, that burns them down to their core. What to call that imaginary flame that ignites their souls and fuses them together in an inextricable kind of way.
For them, finding that place, that word, is becoming more and more important, a necessary part in their journey towards normalcy. But there seems to be no words that accurately describe what is happening between them. Because it’s not hate. And because it’s not love. But it’s still a feeling.
Someone once said that there is a fine line between love and hate. So fine that occasionally it blurs and fades and becomes so thin that it is impossible to distinguish the two emotions. So fine, especially in their case, that it sometimes disappears all together and leaves them a jumbled mess of hatred wrapped up in love and love wrapped up in hate. But usually, it remains at a razor’s edge, a tight rope that they carefully walk, together. Sometimes they stumble and fall, in love or in hate. But they always pull themselves back there, back on that balancing act on the fine line of love and hate.