A/n: This was supposed to be entered for something, but was utterly disappointing. Review and tell me if it's that bad. :)

I Know He Loves Me

"Don't leave! Please!" I pull my body forward across the sullied white carpet, hands flailing in the piercing cold air. The friction between the surface and my naked skin leaves long fierce red streaks on my body. Blood spills onto the carpet as I move. Some part of me throbs painfully, and I gasp. My throat constricts. Hot tears burn at the edges of my vision. I choke and blink them back. But I am not fast enough. One traitorous drop of saltwater hits the carpet as loud as a thunderclap.

He stares at the spot where the saltwater drop fell for a long moment before turning his gaze to me. It is cold and sharp and piercing. His brow is furrowed, his beautiful brown eyes filled with disapproval and revulsion. They narrow and his lips curl into a sneer and he turns away without a word.

You are a failure, I hear. You cry; you have shown weakness. You are a failure.

"Don't leave!" I beg, dragging myself across the once snowy white carpet jerkily. Something hurts and burns and almost blinds me, but it doesn't matter. He mustn't leave.

Faster, faster, before he leaves. He mustn't leave.

I scramble toward him. One hand grabs hold the rough linen of his pant leg, which he is trying to pull up, and yanks hard. I start to pull myself toward him, wrapping my arms tightly around his leg. I try to wrap my body around his leg, but my legs will not move. "Please! I'll do anything!" My hand creeps up his leg slowly, like he said he liked.

But he jerks away from me, flushed and disgusted, and turns and dresses himself. My body, now unsupported, falls back onto the carpet with a loud thud. I ignore the stinging pain on my chest, the raw ache in my abdomen and the white carpet that is being stained a startling red, and focus on the piercing pain in my chest.

I breathe. It hurts.

With a burst of energy, I fling myself against him once more, my arms encircling both his legs. He stumbles and curses, but does not kick me aside. My heart swells in relief, and the pain in the chest deadens. He loves me.

I tighten my grip, my nails digging into the legs of his pants. I shut my eyes and smile at the memory of him exploring my body eagerly, of our sweaty bodies pressed flush together, of the moment when he cried out in passion and ecstasy.

He had not said it, but I could hear it in the air between us: You love me.

I sigh contentedly and force my legs to straighten, gripping his wrists to support myself. I stand shakily, resting my hands on his firm, broad shoulders, and pull my body close to his, close enough for me to feel the heat emanating from his body.

He does not move. A pulse strums strongly and steadily in his chest.

I let my gaze drift up slowly from his clavicle, up his neck, over his Adam's apple, which is black and blue and red and purple and surrounded by rings of teeth marks. My teeth marks. I stare at the cleft in his chin to his stubbly cheeks – the source of the pash rash that covers my chest now. I shift my gaze to his lips, those red, bow-shaped lips, which had marked me fervently, repeatedly, just hours before. A rush of remembered bliss and elation fills my being. I trace over the high arch of his cheekbones to the sharp curve of his nose. I save the best for last. I gaze into those beautiful chocolate brown eyes tenderly, but the iciness in them makes my chest constrict. My pulse accelerates, and all of a sudden I am aware of how tense the muscles beneath my hands are, and how those bow-shaped lips are twisted into a snarl. I shrink back out of pure reflex, my mind racing yet focused on three simple words: He loves me.

He lifts his arms, as if to wrap them around me, and I smile in anticipation. His features contort into a sneer, and in one swift movement, he has my wrists in a bone-crushing grip and flings me away from him. I fly through the air in an arc, relishing the momentary blissful feeling of seeming weightlessness. My body crumples in an awkward heap at the foot of the bed, our bed, and in an instant, everything hurts at once.

I untangle myself slowly and try to bite back a scream as a horrible pain shoots up my arm and numbs my entire body. I hide the scream, but I cannot hold back a yelp. I glance up at him quickly – he had not heard me. Relieved, I stare at the mess of my arm again.

It's alright. It's alright. He won't let anything happen to you.

I inhale deeply to calm myself and my side hurts badly, as if a hundred thousand needles are poking me in the same place simultaneously. I can't breathe properly. I stare at my arm again, at the sharp and white and jagged something that has pierced through my skin from where I had fallen on it. I stare at it until my vision goes out of focus, and then I stare at my chest.

I smile.

I lift my other hand and trace his name slowly across my breasts. My finger turns red, all the way up to my knuckle. He has made them deeper this time, so they will stay and never fade away, he says. I outline his name again. I am glad he came up with something like that; an indelible tattoo. It is the closest I can get to tattooing his name on my heart, he says. I move my finger over to trace the huge outline of the heart that he has carved on my stomach. It is beautiful. It is red, just like it should be. The satisfaction of being irrevocably and entirely his overshadows the intensity of the pain. This, this is all worth it.

Blood, red, thick and gooey, continues to surge out of the gaping holes in my abdomen, trickling down my sides and staining the pristine carpet a dark crimson. What a pity. The stains can never be removed, they are too deep.

I press a hand against one corner of the beautiful heart gingerly to stem the flow, and hear an ominous crack from somewhere within me. I gasp. The pain is excruciating. I dare not move. Neither do I have the strength to ball my hands into fists to curb the pain. Instead, I settle for staring at him – the ultimate comfort.

He must love me very much, to allow me the privilege of having his name across my chest, and a heart – his heart – on my abdomen; to give me a chance to experience what it is like to fly. He must love me. I smile as widely as I can at him, but he is not looking at me. He is using a discarded piece of clothing that I recognize as my own to clean my blood off his body. I will never wash that shirt again.

Eventually, he looks up across the room at me. He takes one look and strides over to me. My heart leaps up in my chest in excitement. As he crouches down before me, I remember my manners and thank him for letting me know what it was like to fly.

His face twists to show disgust and anger. "You are so pathetic," he spits. "I abhor you."

I don't believe him, I think, as he straightens up. His foot collides with my ribs by accident, and I hear another crack. The pain does not increase; in fact it slows to a dull throb and almost disappears as I continue to gaze at him. My heart puffs up with affection. He must have done that to ease the pain.

I don't believe he abhors me. He loves me, he as good as says so through his actions, like the pats on the cheeks he so often gives me. He bends down then, and caresses my bruised cheek. I relish the feeling of his rough hand against my skin for a moment, before he draws his hand back and pats my cheek. The sound of his hand contacting my skin echoes in the quiet room, and the action sends my head swinging to the side. The aftermath is a stinging, burning feeling. I smile. He is just a little stronger than most, he has never meant to harm me.

He lifts his foot and purely by accident, it rams into the exact same spot on my ribs again. Air rushes out of my lungs with a loud whoosh, and I inadvertently let out a cry as a piercing pain rips through my being.

He smirks, turns around and walks out of the door.

I lean against the bedpost, tiny beads of sweat accumulating on my forehead. My breaths are coming out in short pants, and with every breath I take, sharp pains stab me in the side. My hands are scarlet and slick with blood; the wounds will not stop bleeding. The bone, glistening under the harsh lighting, is still protruding out of my bloody arm. I have never touched my own bone before. I would never have, had it not been for him. I must thank him.

The white carpet below me is soaked red.

The raw, metallic tang of blood fills my nostrils and my throat each time I inhale. It makes me sick, but I do not have the energy to be sick. I choke down my sick.

Despite my best efforts, I cannot seem to get enough air. It is getting difficult to breathe; each breath takes a little more out of me.

He will come back, I know he will. He loves me.

The edges of my vision darken and blur. I feel extremely fatigued all of a sudden, I need a good rest. I blink; my lids seem ten times heavier; it is a struggle to keep them open.

He will come back. He is trying to make me more resilient. What doesn't kill me makes me stronger, after all. He is doing this for my own sake, for my own good.

I close my eyes for a short respite. Just for a little while. Until he comes back to wake me up.

He will come back.

He loves me.

He loves me.