"Get out."

She wrapped the sheet around herself and walked to the desk where a half pack of Dunhill cigarettes was waiting to be devoured. By him. She didn't smoke. Or drink. She hadn't even given up on her vegan habits. She was still dear old Mac. At this thought a guttural laugh escaped her throat.

"What?" he asked as he bit a cigarette.

She just looked at him without replying. Her eyes were telling him to shut the fuck up. As she opened her laptop she again got lost in a dangerous train of thought. What would all her friends say if they knew that their very own Mac, the girl that had gotten over her suicidal slash homicidal boyfriend's abuse, the girl that joked around, and helped them out, and confided in some of them about her relationship with Bronson and later Max, that that exact same girl was - for lack of a better term – friends with benefits with Dick Casablancas, the older brother of the aforementioned psychotic boyfriend?

Mac leaned on the soft chair and closed her eyes.

She didn't even know why she was doing it. To punish herself. Surely. How very cliche. Wallowing in self loathing and cleverly disguised despair. Having sex with someone she didn't really know. Feeling disgusted with herself for doing it. Whine, whine, whine. Why should she try to heal when being destructive was so satisfying? Like a drug. Eros and Thanatos all rolled into one.

Bullshit.

She was lying to herself by saying she didn't know him . She had fallen for the guy. Every once in a while she tried to fool herself into thinking that if it hadn't been him it would have been someone else. But this was a moment of pure sincerity. Another giggle threatened to escape her. She had fallen in love with damaging herself. Human nature sure was a whore.

She reached for the Dunhill pack and put a long cigarette between her bruised, swollen lips. She bent her left knee and rested her heal on the desk. She could see that her revealing pose had caught his attention. Mac took in the smoke and then slowly expulsed what she would normally consider poison out of her lungs. She felt his gaze on her. Although her eyes were closed he felt him pausing to look at the bruises he had caused. She didn't mind the marks. That's how it was between them. Brutal, wild, always burning bright and intensely.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. He had an apologetic look on his face. At that moment she loved him. Because the same emotion was mirrored in his eyes.

But this wasn't about love. It was about not being able to let go of the pain. About being a victim on the inside and feeding demons; some of which were of their own creation. No room for constructive emotion.

She put out her half smoked cigarette and glared at him.

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

No lengthy sentimental speech about never having meant to hurt her - because he had enjoyed it; no tears, no sobs. But it was more than what other potential manifestations would have been.

She tore her blue eyes from his. Lowering her leg she tossed him his jeans.

"Get out."she said again as she started to type.

An ambiguous grin fluttered over his lips. He put his clothes on hastily.

"Always the romantic, Ghostworld..." he whispered in her ear.

The door slammed shut behind him.

A/N: I know they're a little out of character. Especially Mac. But that was kind of the point. Hope it got across. Please review. Just think. A couple of minutes of your time can make me happy and maybe even a better (and less lazy) writer. Cause we love feedback.