A drabble

1

I have loved him for as long as I can remember. But I've never seen him like that before. So angry. So passionate.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I hate him for causing me this pain when all I've ever done was love him.

I hate him for putting me down again and again, when all I ever wanted was to impress him.

I hate him for choosing his stupid brother, who tried to rape me (for the lack of a worse word); yet he's saying 'to hell with the law' with this... With that girl. That girl...

That girl.

She must be a good one.

She must be pure, she must be an angel.

He likes them like that.

Pure and clean and honest from the time they're born until they draw their last breath.

Like Comtess Ninon de Larroque. She's good, her intentions are pure. She's the epitome of the woman that he thought I was.

He loved me, but I wasn't honest and pure and clean. And so, he hated me.

I've never killed anyone; not out of boredom or amusement as he made it sound. Not unless the bastard puts me in danger. I have to defend myself because no one else would. I'm used to everybody trying to kill me.
Trying to fuck me.
Trying to own me.

I have to protect myself.

I should have protected myself the most from him.

Look at the way that he looks at her. Look at the way that he holds her. So cautious, so caring and yet so overly protective.

And look at how his friends has surrounded them, so no one can touch the couple.

Ah... What a lovely sight.

I hate it.

But I hate myself the most.

For loving him.