Searing pain stings the open wound splitting my cheek straight across my cheekbone as I pressed the moistened wash cloth against it. Blood trickled down from it and left me by my small chin, the rest smearing on my now-pale skin or draining out into the cloth – my very essence leaving me behind. I begin to feel nothing. Yet, he drew blood this time. It's nothing new, but why do I begin to feel less and less now?

I hear that demanding voice call for me from the bathroom doorway. I need only look forward at the mirror before me to see my tormentor in the doorway. He's so further away from it than I, but he is all I can see with no regard to the bit of myself blocking the rest of his well-defined figure. I can see only empty sorrow filling his glimmering blue eyes. He approaches me from behind and tenderly wraps his arms around my waist. I can't help but appreciate his pressing himself to me, even after all this. More blood drains from the wound upon my face, no end seemingly coming as my eyes are drawn to the masculine figure before me, yet behind me, yet beneath me.

No sensation comes as his lips press themselves upon my other, undamaged cheek. Only more blood comes from it's other half. I feel as if each drop is taking another bit of me further and further away from this monster, this lovely man, yet still leaving me behind in the arms of some fallen angel. I hear no sincerity in his wavering voice or his poor excuse of an apology. I can feel only the blood trickle away into the cloth. I can feel only the pain leave and the emotions fade away with them, distilling themselves among the bloody water inside the worn piece of fabric.

His eyes stick themselves to it as it filled with more and more. Soon, mine do the same and we just stand, watching this debacle play itself out as usual until I feel the blood finally stop leaving me. If only it wouldn't stop. The pain is gone, now, but I'm still here.

The skin of his chin moves against my bare shoulder as his teeth flash themselves handsomely in one of his “loving” grins. There is no permanent damage on his prize's outer shell. That's the most important part. He cares nothing of how I feel nothing but drained. For a moment I feel this sensation itself as a blessing, an answer to my prayers. But then I realize, it is only the beginning of something far worse. He reaches out his arm from behind me and turns on the faucet to begin re-soaking the fabric with warm water. He takes the chance and moves the hand up to my wounded cheek and cups it as he checks it over carefully, still feigning a sense of sorrow and regret. I know he feels nothing, just as I begin to as well. It seems so easy, now.

He turns my head fully and stares with the eyes of a devil into my own, emptied eyes. It was foolish of me to think he would understand my desire to leave. Now he knows. He knows that I will never try again. He has drained me. I'm imprisoned here. I see out of the corner of my eye that the blood has already come to a complete purging from the cloth. I can't help myself as I suddenly reach out to stop the faucet, but he grapples my wrist with a fierce strength, holding me back and nearly snapping the bones inside my forearm as well.

I stand and stare helplessly, yet carelessly as the blood leaves the cloth and exits via the drain underneath it. Only traces are left now. His grin never falters as he releases my wrist before tediously holding it with his other hand. The pain brings no reaction from me, now. The devil tells me he will take me to a doctor tomorrow and to come up with an excuse myself before then. With that, he pushes me away once more against the bathroom wall, my head reeling as I recover from it's crash with the red paint coating that part of the wall. I stare at the walls around me. Flames of red and orange encircling me as I slide down to a fetal position in the center of the room, feeling those flames take me finally, ensnaring me once and for all into my love's deadly grasp.