what's in the water?

right. um. uh

this fictionkin shit is EASY

...I want him. I want to see him. I want to hear his voice, his laughter, even if it's me he's laughing at. Even if it's to insult me, to mock me for thinking he ever cared about me, that I ever, even for an instant, meant something to him. I'd be content with the simple privilege of being the one he's wasting his voice on. I want to feel his hands. I want him to touch me, even if his touch lacks all the affection it used to hold (or the one he used to fool me into feeling). I want him to hit me. If nothing else, I want to be the thing he takes out all of his frustrations on. I've seen it before, his fists clenching as he wishes, only for a moment, that there was something he could hit without consequences, without feeling undignified. I could be that for him. I would take it all, I would be good. I could be his doll, like I was for so many people before him. I'd do a good job. I would be excellent. I'd take anything he gave me, serve him in any way he wished. Anything to know I'm pleasing him, that I'm not bad enough to get rid of yet. I'd even let him kill me. I would stand, or lie, or sit, so perfectly still, so willing, ready for him to put me down like a dog that's too sick or too old or too injured to be useful anymore. I would be so unfathomably happy, if it had been him who killed me.