[ CW ] ( Love ? ) story that ends with `` Worst part is , I still love her/him . ''

I wandered, half in a trance, down the dim lit street. My short, black heels clacked along the pavement and echoed down the road. I starred at the endless amounts of stars above me. I envied their freedom. Beautifully radiant and surrounded by space, they represented everything I wasn ’ t. I felt like they gazed back, with pitiful looks. Every so often I saw one of them wink at me, as if to say “ don ’ t worry; you ’ ll get your moment. ” I was so lost in their grandeur I hadn ’ t noticed the shadowy figure following behind. A cold cloth wrapped itself around my face. A dull thud crashed into my skull. I awoke, half naked in an alley. I spoke to officers through a swollen lip and behind a mask of tears. The exact events were blurred and I didn ’ t want to make them clearer. The stars weren ’ t watching over me any longer. I never really felt safe on my own after that. 
 
 
 Years later I met Michael. It wasn ’ t a Hollywood romance. We met during a brainstorming session at work. I remember the focused look in his eyes back then. He insisted on meetings outside of work so that the team could bond and work over ideas. Turned out he could be quite charming after a few beers. 
 
 
 It was awkward at first. He never tried to rush things, but since the incident I felt insecure with any physical intimacy. A gentle hand caressing my face felt all too much like a cold, wet cloth and could plunge me into darkness and gazing stars. All too often I would flinch away from his touch. When I did a worried look would shoot across his face, but only for a brief moment, before being camouflaged within a warming smile. When we watched films on the sofa, I could sometimes see the same helpless look on his face out of the corner of my eye. He would never support it with speech or knowingly reveal it before my eyes. When I felt ready I told him why I pulled away. When I was deeply in love with him, I finally told him. 
 
 
 It wasn ’ t long after that the police contacted me. They had a suspect. The shadowy figure had a face. I sat in a chair in the station, staring at five tall, thin, dark haired men stood before a white wall, sliced into segments by black horizontal lines. I looked at each in turn, from left to right. I stopped when my eyes rested on the third man. His face looked as though the skin had been pulled taut against the bone, a skeletal head resting atop a skeletal torso. There was a twinkle in his eye and I ’ m sure he winked directly at me from behind the one way glass. I felt my skin crawl and my stomach turn. I felt embarrassed as they had to mopmy half digested breakfast off of the floor. 
 
 
 Apparently my testimony wasn ’ t reliable. My memory had been hazy at the time, and now that hazy memory was old. That was the argument. Like an old, sepia photo it had been poor quality to begin with, and could only have faded more over time. The case soon faltered from lack of evidence. Michael couldn ’ t truly empathise, he knew it and I knew it. But he was supportive and sympathetic. He was loving and understanding. I was angry. 
 
 
 I stood on the pavement outside the house. I knocked on the glass pane that filled almost half the door frame. I saw a figure shuffling forward in the dim lit, blurry world behind the glass. The tumblers clicked as the key was inserted and the sound echoed down the dark, empty street. As he pulled the door open I introduced his skeletal head to the blunt, metal hammer in my hand. I strode into the blurry world behind the door and closed it behind me. “ Don ’ t worry ” I told myself “ this is your moment ”. 
 
 
 I was sat on the pavement outside when the flashing lights tore their way through the darkness. The deep, red, fluid that soaked my body glistened in their brash lights. I gazed up at the stars and they gazed back down at me, emotionless and unblinking. Michael was stood in the gallery as they sentenced me. I forced myself to look up at him. He looked directly into my eyes, with a worried, helpless look on his face. 
 
 I know what I did. I know I am a murderer. I know I deserve to be in prison. I don ’ t regret what I did to the shadowy, skeletal figure. I regret what I did to Michael. I hate what I did to Michael. I know that he will visit less and less. I know that he will move on. I know that I will be alone. And the worst part is, I still love him. 
 
 
 *Edit - Spelling and slight re-wording*
