Hey Angel. //h.s//

//Prologue//

//14TH MARCH 2013//

'Wake up beautiful' he whispers in my ear as his hands rake up my body. My body involuntarily shivers under him, programmed into ridding the white bumps that mark my skin. I gaze down at my body, my naked body, that's w(t)rapped in a white sheet. The bare body that lays awake in the white room. My eyes are dry as I have forgotten to blink, my eyes trained onto the white walls.

I've learned to hate the colour. Every single item in this goddamn apartment is white. It's become amusing to me how such a pure colour can become red in a person's eyes; I have unwillingly trained myself to see everything anew in this colour. Every thing is red to me now.

The connotations are not pleasing to my unsettled mind, you see; you've got two sides to each coin. The first being the colour of a rose, a stigmatic symbol of love and passion, it is something that has become foreign to me. Then when you flip it; there is blood, pain and anguish, of which are found in my reality.

'I love how you shiver under my touch' he smirks against me. My eyes involuntarily shut and let my morning routine play out. He pulls my limp body off of my warm pillow; causing the shield to fall from my body. It instantly leaves me exposed to the cold air, allowing him to trail those wet, sloppy kisses down my body.

I remember the white. I remember the divine feeling of opening my eyes to my surroundings. The white that was pure and virginal, the colour that made me beseech for sunlight, for dawn. I wanted an excuse to wake up and watch the sunlight linger on the walls. I wished for him next to me, the happiness that embraced us.

It wasn't hard to find, I was 16 when I met him. There was no struggle, no hardship. It was boy meets girl, the ultimate cliché.

Now there was no exaggeration in the term 'every morning'; it was his way of asking for forgiveness. It all depended on what he had deemed me worthy of either that day or night. However, if I were lucky enough, it would be both. This didn't matter to me anymore, for he was mine and I was his.

His weapons; or as they are commonly known, his hands, happened to be stroking me. Tracing every inch of my naked back, running his fingers softly over every bump, every bruise and every scar he could find. Now, when I say 'could' I mean he deliberately sought them out. He adored the contrast of his soft fingers trailing over the mishaps of the night. Of course he wanted forgiveness, but that didn't necessarily mean he felt remorseful.

'Remorseful' has never been a part of his vocabulary. It was until my breath involuntarily hitched, that I knew his lips had crept into a deep smirk. Eyes burning deep into the back of my skull as he finds the evidence of last night, pursing his chapped lips he leans in to kiss it.

It started two years ago, we were 18 and in love. I removed myself from the safety net I was protected by, because the boy I loved was given an opportunity that he would never have been able to turn down. So we left our hometown and families, we jumped ship and never looked back.

He was perfect; he showered me with love, warmth and happiness. Oblivious to the fact that 'perfect' is merely a word, I was a fool to believe it could have been immortalised in his shape.

He became a cliché. It all started when he began coming home late and he started drinking more. Oh and of course, snorting whatever white powder would worm it's way into his hands. The Holy Trinity.

My mind becoming obsessed with the idea that I had done wrong, that I did something to make him this way? The thought that each and every day he would put on a white coat and save lives, whilst simultaneously breaking mine. I was wilting and he knew it.

It's been nine months since he started. 14th June 2012. I tried running away, but he found me, he always does. I had nowhere to hide in a town I don't know. I ended up at the tube station right by our apartment building. I just sat there; I knew I wasn't going to get on. But of course he didn't.

He kicked and he punched and he spat. I held myself in a fetus position on the kitchen floor, in a pool of tears and blood. He slovenly walked to door and stumbled out, locking it behind him. I knew exactly where he was going, the only place he ever goes, the place where dignity and pride is left pooling at the bottom of a tumbler.

Usually by the time he got home, my eyes were hooded and sleepy, almost forgetting I was still on the floor. I can hear the key struggling to find its way into the hole, he stumbles into the kitchen clumsily falling into the walls. He looked at me, his eyes stricken with anger and pain. He lifted my body off the floor and dragged me into my personal white hell, where flames would burn my body, stripping me of decency and dignity. My body was numb and I could no longer fight him. I was never strong enough to stop his prying hands, searching my clothes for an entrance.

I'm brought back to my reality, my eyes still closed as I let the tears spill down, whilst allowing my inevitable fate to take it's course.

'P-Please stop' I whimper out, this earns another throaty laugh from him. I attempt at holding my shield against my body in hopes of saving what's left of my tarnished dignity. Now as I come face to face with my beautiful reality; my black haired, hazel eyed reality; I give him half a smile and he leans forward with his left hand out for me to grab. Taking it gently, he pulls me back into his body that was now laid against the headboard. We remain in this position for what seems like eons, my eyes begin to close because I know that I am stuck. I am stuck in this white room, stuck in a constant routine, stuck with the same reality.

For he is mine and I am his.

a/n: completely re-editing the story, writer's block is killing me inside!x