//under the cut.

Where had he gone wrong?
Where had be broken?

"Smilin' me at 'cuz I'm no good..."

He had no idea, but he had to find out. If it took him the rest of his life, he had to figure out where he'd miscalculated. It had cost him dearly, for he had a cut just above his upper eyelid that threatened to peel the skin back and make it impossible to focus. There was a very thin line between what he had wanted to do -- tell her she was wrong, and not attack her thoughts on the matter personally. He had gotten a cut to the eyelid for his efforts, but she was that kind of woman - she didn't take anyone's crap, and he should have seen that coming, but what exact words did he use to incite her temper? Was it the 'I'm sorry, but...', or the 'well, yes, but...'? He was trying not to scream with frustration. She wouldn't deny that she had a problem, and yet refused his help. He couldn't work in the living conditions she had set up for herself, and could not understand how anyone could stand them. And he had to leave. Always the matter of leaving. His eyelid burned, blood seeping into his eyelashes. He couldn't do this anymore. But if he ended, he could have a knife ending up in his liver, a serious injury among the bigger ones he had accumulated with his time near her.

But the question he had to ask himself was, Who was she? Was she evil or good? Neutral or not? Divine? She sure as hell didn't act divine. She was a shell of what she once was, driven to extremes by hunger and fear. But the funny thing?

She didn't even exist.