He hung in tatters above her, wielding guilt like a weapon. Twisting the blade a cruel turn, he accused her of terrible betrayals. He flung her love across the room, demanding she confess her infidelities and deceptions.
The more she struggled to convince him of her devotion, the more fiercely he denied it. Tearing at his humanity, shredding it with each dagger of doubt, there would soon be nothing left of him.
She refused to believe he used his madness to manipulate her. In moments of lucidity, he would weep and repent. Revealing a glimpse of the man he once was, only to transmute into Hyde at the slightest perceived transgression.
It was those simple moments that she clung to, praying for a way to sustain that familiar fragment of him. She nurtured it like one of her passion flowers, fragile yet beautiful. Feeding it sweet endearments, and morsels of acquiescence, she waited patiently for it to bloom again, waited for the perfume of passion again.
At night, while she slept in an uneasy bed, he watched her. Marveling at the frown she held even in her dreams. A smile of recognition danced across his face with her every fearful twitch and whimper. She was close to breaking. Her need to fix him was stronger than her need to save herself.
It was so effortless. His only regret was having to do this again with another once he’d used her up.