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I lean back against the bedpost, my hands deep inside my pockets. The see through curtains and gray sky behind it seem to fast-forward over my eyes. It's like I've been here before. So familiar. But if this had happened before, it wouldn't be going on now.

Isn't that what people believe?

The door creaked open, the figure coming through and approaches me. I barely glance, but their arm slithers around my waist, the hold was more imprisoning than it was a comfort. He lifts his head, that light, pigmentless hair and look into those bleeding irises...

They are my own. It hits me as I look across his features. His features are of my own. That head of hair, though it lacks color, the curls are the same. The shape of his face, from his eyes to the bridge of his nose.

I would burst into a gasp, but I would rather show total apathy than have him realize my discomfort. His lips twist into a smile, And the him that was to be me advanced his face to mine, kissing my cheek, and down my jawline. My hand went to his shoulder. I wanted to push him away, my force not even enough to keep my hand pressed against him. Even if I could push him away, who was I, as selfish as I am, to deny myself.

His free hand went to my forehead, moving my head to the side as he gave my neck a quick stroke with his nose "Big steps. Watch.."

It was then I felt his parted lips press firmly on that same nerve as before. I still hate him, but this bizarre since of self loathing can only get so far. I feel no reason to wince now.

I do feel a tear rushing up to the corner of my eye...

... as I become a tool of my own design.

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