She’d said it so many times before.
It’s over.
But she always came back.
To his door.
To his bed.
Drawn to him
like stake to heart.
The fact that she despised him
only fueled the passion.
The fact that he loved her
only fueled the passion.
He’d memorized the barbs
she used to hurt him.
Sure, they hit home sometimes,
but he’d learned to think of them
as endearments.
It was, after all,
what she had to give.
But when she came today,
soft, in lavender,
and spoke his name.
The name given to the man,
not the monster.
I’m sorry William.
He knew
he’d lost her.