Century #50
Prompt: Love
Words: 395
He has no idea what it is. Because he's never felt this way before and ninety-eight percent of the time he wants to rip out her throat with his bare hands - but it's that other two. In that other two he wants to take her hands in his and never let go, wants to put her in the stars so she'll always shine, wants to give her everything and more, to splay himself defenseless at her feet.
Ninety-eight percent of the time he has to grit his teeth not to snap back, until his jaw aches every night. Ninety-eight percent of the time he clenches his fists and walks with purposefully heavy steps and can't meet her eyes for fear of losing control - but that two percent, in that last two percent he wants to never look away. He wants to make her his life, wants to beg for whatever scraps she'll throw, wants to tell her all his secrets until his voice gives out.
He wants more than he can put words to or even conceive, just wants, and that's why he avoids her completely during that two percent. He hates the loss of power it brings, the turmoil and confusion, knows she will just use it against him and laugh. So he only lets her see the overwhelming majority, the way he absolutely despises her and can barely hold in the urge to maim. He hides the remaining two percent so well and she responds so exactly in kind that he feels justified and even more vindictive (and while that two percent keens with something like despair, the other ninety-eight spits out a told you so).
He keeps the two percent of everything he doesn't understand or want locked away in a hidden vault, and he is completely confident she never even suspects its existence. He is equally confident that the hatred she aims his direction is true with not even a smidge, not even a measly two percent of anything else. She harbors no secrets from him, and everything in her is cold hatred no matter how her temper flares. And that's great, because while two percent of him roils and bubbles like lava ready to erupt, it's not nearly enough to melt the rest, which is cold like dry ice.
Two out of a hundred, after all, is pretty insignificant.
Words: 395
He has no idea what it is. Because he's never felt this way before and ninety-eight percent of the time he wants to rip out her throat with his bare hands - but it's that other two. In that other two he wants to take her hands in his and never let go, wants to put her in the stars so she'll always shine, wants to give her everything and more, to splay himself defenseless at her feet.
Ninety-eight percent of the time he has to grit his teeth not to snap back, until his jaw aches every night. Ninety-eight percent of the time he clenches his fists and walks with purposefully heavy steps and can't meet her eyes for fear of losing control - but that two percent, in that last two percent he wants to never look away. He wants to make her his life, wants to beg for whatever scraps she'll throw, wants to tell her all his secrets until his voice gives out.
He wants more than he can put words to or even conceive, just wants, and that's why he avoids her completely during that two percent. He hates the loss of power it brings, the turmoil and confusion, knows she will just use it against him and laugh. So he only lets her see the overwhelming majority, the way he absolutely despises her and can barely hold in the urge to maim. He hides the remaining two percent so well and she responds so exactly in kind that he feels justified and even more vindictive (and while that two percent keens with something like despair, the other ninety-eight spits out a told you so).
He keeps the two percent of everything he doesn't understand or want locked away in a hidden vault, and he is completely confident she never even suspects its existence. He is equally confident that the hatred she aims his direction is true with not even a smidge, not even a measly two percent of anything else. She harbors no secrets from him, and everything in her is cold hatred no matter how her temper flares. And that's great, because while two percent of him roils and bubbles like lava ready to erupt, it's not nearly enough to melt the rest, which is cold like dry ice.
Two out of a hundred, after all, is pretty insignificant.