Sadist

4 am

It was four in the morning.

That night; it was a night that was unforgettable. A night in which many memories were made. Soft touches, light whimpers, and terror screams.

Such a day. When I think back, it was traumatic, so very much I was diagnosed with PTSD and depression. Not because of the blood, or the pain- but the mere picture of my lovers eyes, their pain increasing by the millisecond, and my inability to feel or even understand the pain.

My therapists believed that I blamed myself, but I knew it wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault- even though the blood was dripping from my fingertips. It wasn't my fault.

Repeatedly, I told myself that because a part of me wanted to believe it was. The fact that I absolutely felt no sympathy, no remorse; that was the most pain. It was insufferable, believing I was some type of monster.

But, I was not. I was no monster, but just a simple human being. A simple human being- one that was traumatized, yet not. A simplified human being into a constructed society that makes you believe you need to feel pain.

Still; the dreams come and go. The shattering scream, and the loss of my lovers touch. I can still feel his touch, I can still feel it shattering my spine, and breaking my neck.

And, I can still hear that scream. That beautiful, yet monstrous scream. Truly- who was the monster? Was it the one that kept the knife in his hands, or the one that loved me knowing the pain it'd leave me?

Again, may I say, I was no monster. The hatred I have for both human beings will never add up into my own hatred of myself. That hate was to feel something, some type of remorse or sympathy. To get rid of the blood, to stop scrubbing my hands until they bleed. It wasn't clean- I wasn't cleansed from the horrid act of human beings. The horrid act of them existing.

It was four in the morning.

-

I watched Eren closely.

Every movement he made, from battering his ombre eyelashes, to the tapping of his fingers.

It wasn't beautiful- but it entranced me. The way he inspected everything around him, looking to recognize familiar faces. And when he did, those eyes; they shined brighter than the night sky.

Yet, when he looked at me, it didn't look like the night sky. It was a drowsy look, like he had just woken up. It disappointed me, truly, that someone I had grown to admire, would give me such a look.

That someone, though, cried to me every night. Screamed my name from distances, and mirrored my lips. The same exact movements, with light flicks of the tongue.

I craved it; I craved him.

But today, it wasn't right. He didn't give me the morning eyes, and he didn't give anyone the night eyes.

He wasn't looking, and he wasn't tapping.

"Eren," From the back of my throat, to the tip of my tongue, it rolled off so easily.

I watched his little jump, the jump no one realized. Just the simple move of his shoulders was enough for me; it wasn't right.

"It's Tuesday, we need to go to the coffee shop." Eren responded quickly, grabbing my hand.

Weekly, we'd drink our coffee together. Little to no conversations, we barely even looked at each other. Outside of our classes, we had nothing to discuss. Yet the presence of the love aroma was enough, it was a conversation of its' own.

We had a layout for getting to the coffee shop. I walked on the right, him the left. We took two rights, and walked straight. He held the door, I thanked him.

Nothing unusual happened, but the most unsuspecting thing did.

His order was different. Exactly two years we had come here, and we both knew it was the anniversary, but it wasn't something to celebrate, but something to sulk.

He had never ordered anything different, and the way he didn't make eye contact with me, the way he avoided further conversation had upsetted me.

Yet, I pushed it aside, not letting it bother me. Such useless things- people's tastes change, their personalities and dislikes change.

We sipped, and I could feel his occasional glare on me. It was heavy, and it was something unusual.

"Come to my house," He said, and those four words swung my heart around.

I knew it was for sex, but we had never had sex. Neither of us are virgins, and being in love for two years wasn't something new. I had sex while being in love with him, vice versa.

We walked to his house, him on the right, me on the left.

And there we went, the slimy lips and heat arousing.

I could feel him completely against me. My back against the bed, and his hands crawling up my shirt.

I watched him pull off his shirt, my shirt, his pants, my pants.

And here we were, two undressed men, finally staring at each other. We weren't focused on coffee, or teachers, just on each other.

That's when I knew; I knew he watched my every movement too. I could see how he was inspecting me, trying to catch every emotion he could.

His hand slid to a familiar place, but when he touched me, it felt all new. I felt like I was virgin once again, that my innocence was being taken from me.

I must admit; I've never been in love. Sex does not define my virginity, and it does not define my innocence. The most pain I had dealt with was the pain from love. So, it felt as if he was robbing me. That he was some type of criminal.

Eren Jaeger was a love criminal. Funny, isn't it? Yet, you cannot determine one's pain until you're in the same situation. How foolish is he? To steal such innocence from me.

I watched his eyes, as they admired my skin, and his lips claimed every part of me. Every cell of mine was his. Every memory of mine was his. Every thought of mine was his.

We connected as one, and I watched him be pull apart from me.

Right in front of me was a man, a man I had loved for two years, being murdered.

I couldn't quite see much, except for blood on my stomach and his eyes becoming the sky without stars. I now understood the look he gave me. He gave me the look of lust, the look of sexual attraction.

The scream I dream of was not his, but mine. My lungs still burn, as if that scream became internal. He loved me for two years, and waited to confess. The sex was not love, but a selfish way to end a life. Not his life, but mine. To take away the stereotypical love I had dreamt of.

His skin never left mine. He still grasped onto me as he was killed. He embraced me, and took me as one.

Yet, here he sits, far apart from me. I watched his heart rate beat at a slow place, the same heart that once beat against my own.

I looked at him, and thought back to that night.

It wasn't four in the morning, it was only midnight.