I sat there waiting. I knew she'd come. She always did. She always came to me after she'd been with him.

My cigarette had burn out. It lay abandoned in the ashtray. I had ignored it, preferring the company of my drink instead. The drink could numb, whereas the cigarette just left me wanting more.

The TV was broken again. So I simply sat there, on the unmade bed, staring at the flickering screen. The colours illuminated the room. Red, green, blue, white, blank. The colours of my room changed with the scenes. I simply sat there, drink in hand, waiting for her to come.

The knock came as no surprise. She entered silently, captured my mouth with hers, fucked me and left as silently as she had come.

No words were said anymore. They were no longer needed. We both knew what was going on. It was simple release. I'd spoken about it so often in front of the others but I never thought she understood. That was until she came that night. She'd been with him. He'd left her unfulfilled. He had to. There was no choice. So she came to me. Slaying vampires just didn't cut it after she'd been with him. She needed something else: a greater release. A release only I could offer her.

I felt like a whore. She came to me in the dead of night, got what she wanted and left again. She used the night to hide all her secrets. I never told her this though. If I did she might stop.

I needed the contact. I needed the connection between us. I longed for her touch. I longed for those moments when it was just her and me. Alone. Together. Complete. I never told her this though. If I did she might stop. The silent contact between us was better than nothing. So what if I didn't have what she had with him, I had a part of her he could never have, I had her calling out my name in ecstasy. He could never have that. Not again.

I got off the, now messier, bed and walked to the shower. I turned the water on and just watched it run. I went to the cabinet and removed the razor blade. It was old. It had travelled. It bore more wounds than my knife. It was me; it was my lifeline. Only the shower knew my secrets. She had the night; I had the water.

I let the warm water cascade down my back. Letting it wash away my dirt, my sins, my all. The alcohol was wearing off; I began to feel. I began to cry. My hand shook as I raised the blade. I had done this so many times before, yet every time I was still scared. What if I went too far? What if I lost too much? What if I died? No one would find me until she came in the dead of night to use me again.

I ran the blade over my arm. Re-opening last nights scars. Re-opening the scars of my childhood. Re-opening the pain that the scabs trapped. Blood escaped the wounds and ran down my arm with the water. Marring the pure, clear substance with red.

She never questioned the marks. She didn't want to know. She only wanted the release. The release that only I could offer. She got what she wanted and to an extent so did I. I got her. Then why did I want more?

The silent fuck satisfied me for weeks. I couldn't wait. I had the after sex glow about me. I couldn't wait until nightfall; when she would come again. And again. And again.

Then why all the sudden did I want more? I didn't understand. I'd never wanted more in my life. I was the 'Get some, get gone' kind of girl. I was the cold, show no emotion kind of girl. I didn't feel. And for a long time I didn't think I could feel.

Then she left. She left every night; that night was no different. But it effected me. I suddenly wanted more. I wanted to talk. I wanted some sign that it meant something, anything to her. That she didn't picture his face as I made her come. That she didn't run back to him and sleep in his arms, instead of mine, afterwards.

I would tell her. This was the promise I made to myself every night, as I cut myself. Then why didn't I?

Fear.

Fear never stopped me before. I'd never allow fear to trap me. I could fight vampires, kill them, and kill demons. But I never had fear when I did it. The only time I had been scared I ran. I ran to her. She comforted me.

But if I told her this, that these nights meant more to me then any words could ever describe, what would she say? She'd tell me she was strait; that I meant nothing to her; that I was just convenient. And then she would run; she would run to him. Who would comfort me then?

Then what? I would have nothing. I would loose all contact. I would loose the feel of her skin next to mine. I would loose the sweet smell of her sweaty body as she writhed in rapture. I would loose it all.

So I cut myself. I cut myself knowing she would return. That she would want. That she would take. And she would have. She would have all the things I couldn't.

Tears filled my eyes. They ran down my face. I slid out of the shower, feeling no cleaner; I dried myself, and went to sleep. I went to sleep in the bed that we shared.

People always say that the mornings are the hardest. It's true. Finding the energy just to get up, finding the energy not to go to the bottle, trying not to numb the pain.

I lit a cigarette. Let the nicotine fill my lungs. The bottle lay ignored on the floor. The cigarette could satisfy whereas the alcohol would just leave me wanting more.

I got dressed. Clad my self in leather. The tight clothing trying to give an air of confidence that she had slowly taken away by making me feel worthless night after night after night. I went to library. I saw her there. With him. In his arms instead of mine. For the first week or so I would sit there, staring at him with a smug smile on my face, knowing I'd had his girl, knowing I'd made her come, made her call out my name instead of his. But after a while that just isn't enough. I wanted more. I wanted what he had. I wanted her. I wanted her love.

It was she. She was the thing that left me wanting more.

R&R pls