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A Measure Of Repetitive Insanity

It burned her to see him repeat those same motions. Those same mistakes. She ached, watching the man she loved more than anything in this whole beautiful and terrible universe follow those same terrible patterns that would bring him nothing but misery. But no matter how much she pushed, no matter how much she dug in her heals and tried to pull him off his cycling track of pain — he always went back. He turned from her, and threw himself back into the fire.

Her beloved refused to accept her gentle words, her soft kisses and caresses for more than a few fleeting moments. Something would always draw him back, draw him from her arms, from the peace of the home she had carved in her heart and house for him. The spot she’d crafted to heal him, a place they’d built to hide away in, and yet

He always chose to walk back out. Back into a world that had always, and would always, hurt him.

Sometimes she wondered if it was worth it. To wait for a man who always came back to her angry and bitter. Burning and so loud despite the fact that he rarely spoke. It was a wonder he didn’t cut himself on those edges. That deadly armor he’d built around himself in the years before they’d met. It was a miracle she didn’t cut herself. But, of course, for all her beloved’s faults, all of that boiling hate and anger he kept under his skin, he never allowed harm to come to her. Or if he did, they were only slivers of what he held within, and he always made sure to mend those minor hurts he caused.

She cursed that cold familiarity that called back her love’s beastly soul often. For that was what really wretched her lover from her tender hands, the healing warmth they could have. The urge to cling to what you know, what makes sense, even if it’s twisted, would always be stronger than her lover’s iron will. Stronger than her own loving words, her gentle yet firm actions.

She cursed and prayed every time her love turned from her. Wishing she was stronger. Wishing he was stronger. Wishing she could be enough to pull him out of the darkness. Wishing she had the power to set her lover’s fire to a simmer. To get him to rest. That she could reach in and tear out her love’s anger and smooth over those edges.

She wishes she could be angry and bitter. She wishes she were enough for him. But most of all she wishes she could have it all. To have all of her love, let him keep his fire and edges, and still have him in her world.

But she knows better. Her love will never be anything less, and if she ripped him from his dark world… Well, one way or another, she would loose him. And she knows no matter how much it hurts to watch him leave, to press her hands against those edges, to listen to that always pounding heart, she knows it would hurt more to loose him.

So in the end all she can do is sigh and wait for his return. Again and again. For no matter what happened, no matter that their semblance of peace never lasted more than a few moments — her beloved would always return to her embrace. If only to temper his fire back enough that he didn’t burn himself before he went back to challenge the world.

And that would have to be enough. Fractured memories and fleeting moments of peace — it’s all he needs, so it has to be enough for her. It has too.

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