I can’t remember how the Argument started; all I can remember are the consequences.

It was one of those bad autumn days, the result of living too close for too long. Suffocated by each other, breathing each other’s air.

We screamed horrible, soul-tearing things at each other, the things we had kept hidden for so long, disgusting vile words flew out of our mouths and destroyed each other, until we could feel no more, and we didn’t care what the other said. We just wanted to hurt.

We threw things, plates, vases, anything that might hurt the other, cause damage, make us feel human again. Some part of me wanted us to come to our senses and stop, the other part wanted us to carry on down the path to comforting, blinding insanity, where nothing mattered but the other. Wrapped up in this madness.

When he hit me, split my lip, I slapped him back and a red mark appeared quickly on his left cheek. I could taste the blood, the irony taste that I relished. He grabbed my wrists roughly, too tight, and pushed me against the wall. We kissed with the ferocity and desperateness of two doomed lovers, trying to break the confining barrier of our skin.

I bit his lip, hard. Tasted more blood. I ripped his shirt off him, buttons popping and material ripping with an ultimately satisfying sound. He groaned as my sweaty hands moved down his chest, and he picked me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist, as his torn, buttonless shirt puddled on the floor. We cascaded down after it, my knee connecting with the table, making me feel again, for a split second.

There were shards of glass and plates on the floor, I could feel them digging into my bare back, and I knew he could feel the same. It stung, as the blood mingled with the sweat and seeped into my cuts. I couldn’t ever remember loving or hating someone so much as I loved and hated him. I wanted him to hurt, but I never, ever wanted him to leave. I needed him to save me from myself.

And it petrified me.

I knew something had changed; the next day he wasn’t acting right. Like something had broken. Like the bruises and cuts were the outer marks of inner torture. I suppose they were. I tried to clutch at him, but like water he fell through my fingers. I felt crushed.

I knew the end was coming.