You know that it's sick. You hate him. He despises you.
You crave his hands all over you. Caresses or cuts, his blade or his cock; it's all the same.
It's sick and twisted, and so very cruel; but you're doing it to yourself because you don't know what else to do. Because there's no one to tell you not to. Because you want it, and you lie when you tell yourself you don't know why.
But then, what can you do? You hate and you despise and you miss, you miss him, why did he ? You don't get it. You loved him. Everyone loved him. He loved you -- no, he didn't, that was nothing but a lie -- oh god, you miss him. You want him dead, dead, dead for doing that to you. Not this -- the broken bones and the whispers in your ear, this is nothing, this is everything, this doesn't matter. That. The only 'that' for you.
You know you don't even care about the cousins and uncles -- you only care that he was half of your whole world, and he destroyed the other half and then left, left you alone, left you behind. And if he will only touch you like that, then maybe -- hah! Maybe nothing, you will pretend and let him believe he's fooling you just so you can kill him, make him pay -- it almost feels like he loves you.