A/N: Ok, another stylistic experiment. I've recently been reminded to reread a Lambbaby's fics, most of which are one-shots, of which many are first-person. Since I've never written first-person perspective, I figured I'd give it a shot. I'll forgo the usual statements of modesty, as I've been told that they are irritating. Please read with a review in mind, and tell me what you think of the style.
All relationships have their problems.

I know this. Everyone knows this. Even people like me, with nearly no experience with men.

I look down at my hands. The gray skin pale even in my dark room. They've been washed since, but I can still see it. The blood on them. Not much, but it was there. It's physically gone now, but I can still see it.

His blood.

I sigh heavily, feeling the depression flow through me as I do so. I've been in this room ever since it happened. It wasn't so terrible as it sounds. He was joking again. He always likes to joke. He's told me before, during other fights, that his mouth moves faster than his mind. He says stupid things before he realizes that he's saying them.

Shaking my head, I try to focus on remembering the event. He'd been joking, and I was barely listening to him. I don't recall how it happened, but somehow a joke slipped out about my father. It happens, and I know he meant no offense. I could see it in his face as soon as he said it, that he realized what he'd just said. It was too late, and for some reason, my first instinct was violence.

I felt strange, hitting him. For some reason, as I did it, I thought it might be good, that I might feel vindicated against his stupid jokes. Instead, I immediately regretted it.

He fell to the floor, more from surprise than injury. I'm not the strongest person in the world, barely stronger than any other girl my age, at least physically. He isn't the toughest guy in the world either, though. He looked up at me, stunned by my actions, blood dripping from his bruised nose.

I looked down at my hands, and saw the blood on them as well.

I ran away from him at once, away from my friends staring at me in disbelief.

I've been here ever since. It's been... hours. I tried to meditate, I tried to just cover the guilt, suppress the regret, but it didn't work. My mind was too unfocused, I couldn't even begin to form the proper trance.

Instead, I sit here, and I stare at the floor, and at my hands.

No one has come to see me. They think that it's dangerous; that I'll attack them too. They think that my attack on him has to do with my father's influence. I know better. I can't blame him for this, it was me. It was my instincts, and my actions, and my fault.

My face still feels tight, where the tears dried. I stopped crying some time ago; I don't remember how long. I still feel just as bad, but I can't cry anymore. My mind won't let me forget that I'm alone in here. He hasn't come to see me. Even though I know it wouldn't happen, my mind continues to ask the question.

What if he doesn't want me?

The thought continues to exist, even though I know it's nonsense. He loves me. He tells me every day.

I don't recall the last time I told him.

A sudden knock on my door startles me, despite the softness of the sound. I find myself looking at the door as if it was invading my privacy. I stand, the weakness and stiffness in my joints reminding me of the time I've spent in the same position.

The door opens, and he's there. I didn't expect anyone else. The bruise on his nose is dark, but he doesn't say anything. He's smiling, nervousness showing through the smile, as well as that single fang that always pokes out. He's holding a dozen or so flowers. I know where he got them; they grow wild just outside the tower. He looks at me and my face, and we both understand, without words.

We're sorry.

His arms move around me, and we embrace for a moment. He knows the limits, and pulls away shortly. I take the flowers, allowing a small smile, despite the tears flowing from my eyes again. He comes into the room, and the door closes. I put the flowers in the vase on my desk, the same one that held the same flowers last time we had an argument.

I sit down on my bed, and he sits next to me. His arm moves tentatively around my back, settling on my waist. I lean slightly against him, willing to be a little closer than I otherwise would. We just stare at the floor again, but now we are together.

I am no longer alone, and his smile and touch remind me that I never will be again.


A/N: Yeah, a bit sappy, I know. I don't know why I decided to write my first person experiment as a girl, but eh. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this little experiment, and please review and tell me what you thought! Back to Memories Written in Stone as soon as I'm able.