She feels the whisper of his breath against her cheek, late at night when she's alone. Her head tips back and hot liquid races down her throat, and silently she can hear him berating her of her bad habits.
"Sorry, Dan," she whispers to no one. "Are you disappointed in me?"
The fabric of her robes seem heavier than they should be, and they weigh her down until she can no longer rise from her chair. She imagines there are cracks spider-webbing across her skin—tiny fissures in her flesh from where her pieces were placed back together. They rest together precariously, in constant danger of coming apart once again. Once something breaks, she knows, they can never be quite the same again. "Would you hate me, if you saw me now?" she asks the night air, eyelids fluttering.
And he whispers in her ear.
Bleh. Disclaimer.