A/N: This is such an evil story, I don't even know why I wrote it.

Warnings: Swearing, violence, and domestic abuse. No, I do not condone any of these things. Nor am I glorifying abusive relationships. It's bad, mmkay? Just a curious insight thanks to a song.

Disclaimer: I don't own KND or Love the Way You Lie by Eminem ft. Rihanna.

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn. But that's alright, because I like the way it hurts.

Just gonna stand there and hear me cry. But that's alright, because I love the way you lie.

I love the way you lie.

She was a coward, a slave to her own bitterness and hate. A betrayer to her friends and a monster to her allies.

She still remembered the remnants of her childhood. Her leading children over the most insignificant things now to her person, but worthwhile to her inner child. What adult wouldn't give to live the life of a child again? Watch it flash by and only yearn when they finally grew up.

But she was swayed to the other side, when she was destined to forget. Her adult body was a disease, wasn't it? That was what she was raised and taught within the confines of that organization for the protection of the livelihood of children everywhere. She hadn't forgot because she was a coward.

A coarse and obviously masculine hand passed by her vision and pulled her notebook away, tossing it somewhere on the hard wood floor before finding it's destination on the flimsy cotton fabric on her stomach, seeking some form of warmth. She ignored it, but set her pen aside anyways.

The owner of said hand said that her adult body was no disease, but a visage of sensuality and beauty. And his alone to partake in. But it hardly quelled her desire for something more substantial, something among the stars of a unforgotten memory.

Then he would get angry and tell her that the stars held nothing for her out there. No hope, no chance, no return. And she believed him, but never said it out loud. Let him growl and yell to her indifference, she didn't care. Let him push her further onto the floor and claim, taunt her because she chose him in the end. And she must live with the consequences.

I can't tell you what it really is. I can only tell you what it feels like.

He wanted her, dear God he did. She fights and struggles and never gives in. And then she does because he's her lifeline whether she wanted it or not. He held her like she was the most sublime creature before throwing her aside just because. Because she depended on him for all the wrong and right reasons.

He kissed her like she was drowning-or was it him drowning and they'd give in before one of them shoved the other aside. She'll suddenly shove him as if sense returned to her and he'll tell her how pathetic she was before returning and begging for a shred of her mercy.

And right now there's a steel knife in my windpipe. I can't breathe, but I still fight while I can fight. As long as the wrong feels right.

She hated herself and yet loved herself because of him. How could she hate that grown body that any woman would die for? Blond hair, fuck that soft blond hair that drove him crazy. He hated her so badly and the feeling was mutual.

Sometimes he'll find himself at the end of her wrath, and likewise. Lay your hands on me again, baby, and I'll hurt you too. How was it possible to covet something and yet try so hard to destroy it?

His body would be badly bruised from her piercing fists or her shoves and yet he loved it. She made him feel alive, this broken and whole person he had known since they were young.

It's like I'm in flight. High off of love, drunk from my hate-It's like I'm huffing paint. And I love it, the more that I suffer, I suffocate.

The studio apartment is trashed again. She's on another tirade. Having her memory erased should have been her destiny, but she didn't take it. So scared, she was so scared to try.

And it's tearing her apart.

He's smirking at her. And he's laughing at her, enjoying her screams and hate for the world. Why won't that boy come back and save her? No, it didn't exist-those fairytales belonged to children until reality hits. He left her on purpose.

He's still laughing, that deprecating laugh that said, "I told you so." She throws a random object in his direction watching it shatter in the opposite wall, narrowly missing him.

He doesn't dodge her attacks anymore. Shrapnel of shattered glass nicks him in the shoulder, but he doesn't seem to notice. His blue eyes glittering with a subdued fury.

"Stay away from me!" She screams at him and yet she throws herself at him, tearing at whatever she could. He snarls and shoves her aside harshly but she manages to shove him back onto the floor, his back inflamed as the sharp pieces lace up his flesh.

And right before I'm about to drown, she resuscitates me. She fucking hates me and I love it.

Sometimes she'll run from the damage, unable to process her madness. And then there's those times where she'll choke up a sob and cling to him, the only one who continued to stay with her. She's in her moment of subdued regret and she'll tend to him, cleaning up his new wounds and re-wrapping his old ones.

He'll do the same, pissed at himself for leaving bruises all over her fair skin from grabbing her, rubbing away the redness on her skin from his pushes.

Then she'll try and run before the night ends, fearful of his or her own wrath. And he'll try and stop her because he can't get enough of her, can't be without her.

"Wait, where you going?"

"I'm leaving you."

No you ain't. Come back. We're running right back. Here we go again.

He threatens before he pleads for her. She's his last thing right in the world. Everyone's abandoned him-she's all he has left. He'll stop her from hailing that taxi, spiriting her away before outlookers see the wounds they both sport. Both trained to fight in the past and now their only enemies are each other.

But fuck, he loves her so damn much. Let her hit him, push him. These wounds are for her and he's no freak looking for death or using pain for relief. He'll do anything to have her. In the past, the present, the future.

It's so insane, cause when it's going good, it's going great. I'm Superman, with the wind in his bag. She's Lois Lane.

When they don't fight, they inspire. They are unstoppable. There is no person who can rise against them and they could take the world if they wanted to. A shadow of her former self, but she still leads with grace, still instill confidence to any weak fool who seeks it.

She'll smile softly in their most quiet moments, seemingly content. He's more used to her far off expression, but her subdued demeanor was something he loved and frustratingly despised. The fire she had was dimmed, nearly out, and he's trying his hardest to stoke it back to life. Sometimes he feels he succeeds with her soft touches and her eyes going alight when his efforts are somewhat successful.

Does she see his former identity too? That boy who she desired in her youth like so many others before her? And she won the right, even at the price of her contentment, her sanity.

But when it's bad, it's awful. I feel so ashamed.

It's not healthy, this relationship. That he knew. They both take and take. Whatever rarity where they give, the other selfishly takes it for their own and demand for more. It's his fault, she knows it is and it relieves her bitter guilt over the choices he's made. It's her fault, he knows it is and she restores him to his former glory, if only for a night. They take and take and take.

I snap. Who's that dude? I don't even know his name. I laid hands on her.

If he ever saw that boy again, he was going to kill him. He doesn't deserve her undying adoration, her spirit. And yet she yearns and yearns and it pisses him off. He's not here for her like he was. Holding her, taking her hate and love all in one.

He snaps her away from her empty looks, always to the skies. He covers the entire studio with black curtains in spite and then staples them permanently in place when she tries to draw them. The stars hold nothing for her. She screams and he moves her aside. She doesn't cry, she fights. So does he.

When she demands, he scoffs. He'll never come back, he says. She'll never leave him even if she tries.

I'll never stoop so low again. I guess I don't know my own strength.

He's touched her again, hurt her. It sickens him each time, but she drives him to the point where he can't see reason, driving him mad with every sardonic quip, insult and comment. He drops to his knees and reach for her. She never flinches. She expects it.

Let him apologize for the hundredth time. She's killing him and bringing him back to life over and over and over and over and over...

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn. But that's alright, because I like the way it hurts.

Just gonna stand there and here me cry. But that's alright, because I love the way you lie.

I love the way you lie.

I love the way you lie.

She lies on the floor amidst all the broken items in the study, bruised and beaten this round. She doesn't curl into a fetal position like the others, she's an open book, staring at the ceiling, pretending that she can see the stars this way. She's happy that it drives him mad, happy that he'll never let her go. She needs his force, his undying devotion. She manipulates like he does, both caught in each others' web each time.

She hates him, reviles him. She loves him, yearns for him. He's the only one who'll touch her gently and bruise her harshly at the same time. Her ally and enemy.

He was at the bridge where she ran, her consolation prize for the easy way out. Or was it the hard way? Who cared when everyone else would forget? Everyone important. They were both thrown away like yesterday's trash. And they orbited each other, two souls looking for something and never finding it.

It's wrong, what they have. She doesn't care.

You ever love somebody so much, you can barely breathe when you're with them? You meet and neither one of you even know what hit 'em.

She doesn't understand why he loves her. How he'll follow her suggestions every time she flashed those lilting brown eyes of hers. A man looks at her the wrong way and he'll have the fucker's arm broken in two and be in jail for the night, but the lesson is never learned. He'll do it again and again for her.

He knew her for a long time, walked in each others shadows as they played the games of childhood's past. She's changed, she always changed, but he didn't care. She can be a bloody husk of a former girl for all he cared and he'd still worship her. She can snap and turn into some sort of psychopath and he'll follow her over that edge.

Got that warm fuzzy feeling? Yeah them chills. Used to get 'em, now you're getting fucking sick of looking at 'em.

Anything for her, but she doesn't see him. She's sees that fucker, off gallivanting doing shit knows what in space these days like some sort of Captain fucking Kirk. He'll shove that hope she has time after time, sometimes fuck with her mind because he can. Because he doesn't want her to leave.

The boy? Probably dead somewhere in space. Maybe fucking some alien chick. He probably doesn't think of her anymore, forgetting her completely. She despairs, trying to drown out his words and he smiles. He's won this round, but these days, he's lost count on who's winning the war.

And when he loses, he walks away. He doesn't want to look at her. Sometimes he thinks that she's a hopeless basket case, dodging her destiny in the hopes that her memory of that boy will save her soul. It doesn't. And this makes him happy. Very happy. He doesn't stay away for long. By morning, she's following him into the kitchen, desperate for his presence, his touch. Her turn to be the lost puppy today.

You swore you've never hit 'em, never do nothing to hurt 'em. Now you're in each others face, spewing venom, and these words, when you spit 'em.

She screams again. He screams again. It's such a reoccurring theme that even the neighbors don't call the cops anymore when it happens. It's pathetic, but people don't know why. They scream because it keeps them alive, keeps them from falling into such a stupor, they can't get out.

She calls him a bastard, he calls her a bitch. The cycle of insults continue until someone snaps. Most of the time, it's him who does. He can't deal with her, but he can't stay away. This isn't what love is, not what is portrayed in those damn sappy romance movies. It's not healthy to proudly show these bruises or cuts to the world, does it? They reached the point where they both knew they were sick in the head, but they won't stop. They can't.

You push, pull each others hair. Scratch, claw, bit 'em, throw 'em down, pin 'em. So lost in the moments when you're in 'em.

She smacks him first, her nails leaving deep red lines on his jaw and cheekbone, but he doesn't feel the sting. He's too busy lunging at her in retaliation, shoving her to the floor. She kicks him harshly in the gut and he goes down. Her eyes are blazing, alive.

They spend the rest of the night fighting, using the already broken studio as their battleground. These moves taught to fight the enemy never stales like the others. He's got glass in him from a shattered coffee table and she's nursing a deep gash all over her arms and legs from the assault.

There's a moment of clarity between them as they both caught their breaths, and their rage breaks at the state of each other and the small world around them. This isn't what love should be.

Then what the hell is this?

It's the rage that took over. It controls you both. So they say it's best to go your separate ways.

Two trips to the ER. He says he got into a bar fight and she says she fell off a cliff rock climbing. They never go in together and neither come out at the same time.

Guess that they don't know ya cause today, that was yesterday. Yesterday is over, it's a different day.

He comes home and finds her overnight bag gone, taking whatever friends she has left their advice to leave again. But he can't think straight because the drugs are taking their effect and it knocks himself out for a couple of hours before he's up again, pacing, waiting for her to come back.

Sound like broken records playin' over, but you promised her. Next time you'll show restraint.

Her friend answers and they yell at each other over the phone. She doesn't want to talk to him, but he doesn't believe it. He screams her name, hoping she's on the other line to hear. He begs for her. He'll die without her. He's sorry. He can't let her go, she's all he has left.

The line goes dead and he spends the time trying to clean the mess. Maybe she'll see that he's trying if he fixes everything right. He's desperate and lost. There's no one else to turn to.

She doesn't come home that night.

You don't get another chance. Life is no Nintendo game. But you lied again, now you get to watch her leave out the window. Guess that's why they call it window pane.

But he thinks she's better off when the days apart brings what's left of his sanity back. His wounds are finally healing, if slowly. He thinks of her sometimes and he tries not to. It hurts him. She's gone and ripped out his heart and squeezing it even from a distance.

So he tithers between pining for her and wishing her away. He can't love her and make her happy at the same time. He can't scrub his hands of the bruising he gave her, or the stinging slaps in their most heated moments.

The apartment is completely clean from top to bottom. He's even attempted dinner, something she always found amusing at the most random moments. And he waits for her.

But she doesn't come home. The dinner's gone cold so he throws it away.

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn. But that's alright, because I like the way it hurts.

Just gonna stand there and hear me cry. But that's alright, because I love the way you lie.

I love the way you lie.

I love the way you lie.

She twists and cries in her sleep. Not her bed, not her room. He's not here. She can't find any comfort in her friend's flat. Was he alright? Did he eat? Is his wounds healing?

When she's near him, she can't stand him. But when she's away, she can't be without him. Her friend says that he's a monster who shouldn't deserve any love. But she caused his bruises and injuries too, didn't she? She was never fond of double standards.

She's always blamed him for the effect he had on her and his exploitation of said effect. She paces around in the day, moving to the window, searching for home. She sits and tries to write something at night, anything to keep her distance from him.

This is better this way. He's sick around her and she knows it. They're both sick around each other. They can't get enough of each other and yet they can't stand each other.

She's forced to spend the evenings watching nonsense movies with her friend, an obvious attempt to get her to see that he wasn't healthy for her. Romantic movies filled with rainbows and candy and corny Lifetime movies where the woman always wins in an abusive relationship. She may have gone mad, but she was far from stupid. And it pisses her off more.

She needs to go back...and get the rest of her things.

Now I know we said things, did things that we didn't mean. And we fall back into the same patterns, same routine.

But your temper's just as bad as mine is. You're the same as me. But when it comes to love, you're just as blinded.

He jogs now in the mornings, unable to stand the ensuing silence and the empty home. And when he comes back, he finds that someone's home and his chest constricts with both terror and desire.

She's getting the rest of her stuff and he's ready to tear his hair in distress and relief. They stare each other for a moment, neither finding anything to say. Too scared to try. They're both more lucid in their reasoning and he tries to admit to himself that this is better this way. He's making her sick.

She's making him sick. She knows this. And it's unfair. A glimmer of her former self emerges, meeting his own shadow of self. But she loves him so damn much.

The place is clean, as if the sins were washed away. But she knew better. If they both stayed in one place, it'll be trashed again.

She's leaving and he's on his last leg. He doesn't want her to go. She doesn't want to let him go.

Before she even steps outside, he reaches for her, careful of her injuries as she was of his own.

Baby, please come back. It wasn't you, baby, it was me. Maybe our relationship isn't as crazy as it seems. Maybe that's what happens when a tornado meets a volcano?

He begs, whispers into her hair, his voice cracking from the strain of speaking. God, he loves her so much. He loves her punches, her kicks, her gentle touches and her kisses. She's unreceptive until she finally gives in, like she always does.

She's been waiting for his pleading. She can't turn away from it because she understands being alone. She revels in his soft brushing of his fingers through his hair and she traces the scratch lines on his face, apologetic for what she did. She's just as much as an abuser as he was. They both deserve it.

All I know is I love you too much to walk away though. Come inside, pick up your bags off the sidewalk. Don't you hear sincerity in my voice when I talk? Told you this is my fault, look me in the eyeball.

Next time I'm pissed, I'll aim my fist at the dry wall.

He swears he won't hit her again, he won't touch her with anything but love. She drives him crazy, she pushes him to do it, but he'll try for her. She promises the same.

But this is another moment, the calm before the storm. Always. Next time, they'll try some semblance of normalcy. Next time, they'll keep their tempers in.

She doesn't leave this time. She never does.

Next time, there will be no next time. I apologize even though I know it's lies.

I'm tired of the games. I just want her back.

He can't turn back time no matter how badly she wants him to. He doesn't have that power and in her madness between being a failure and a traitor like him, she thinks it's his fault.

She can't be the same girl he wants her to be. The one where he started falling for her. And she'll never look at him like she looks for that boy. And it's frustrating being second best to everything. Even to her.

I know I'm a liar.

She still stargazes, looking for something she sorely misses. But it's far from her reach and it comforts her that he's in the sidelines, loving her completely. She doesn't tell him that she hardly looks to the stars anymore because it satisfies her when his jealously shines through. He's the only real thing now that she can touch, cherish, use.

But she does love him. She loves him so deeply she wants to hurt him for it. He has to suffer for it just as much as she has to suffer with the choices she made for him to have her.

And in the next few days, they'll start the endless cycle of fighting and loving. They'll touch and kiss and love until they can't love anymore and they'll start hating.

He cherishes her, the last few moments before a rain of insults come down like a meteor shower. She'll tease him gently before it becomes biting and spiteful. His lucidity ends along with her own sanity before the end of day.

If she ever tries to fucking leave again-

She begins to reopen his old wounds and he revels in it before his tender grip on her becomes threatening, his eyes darkening, anger returning.

I'mma tie her to the bed-

She's laughing before she cries, promises previously thrown away again. She'll never leave him. He won't let her. His drug, her drug. They'll kill each other first before that ever happens.

And set this house on fire.

It's not love. It's not hate. It's both. And theirs alone-memories of a long forgotten innocence gone in a blaze of heat, sensuality, anger, love, malice. It's heaven and hell.

This is reality.

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn. But that's alright, because I like the way it hurts.

Just gonna stand there and hear me cry. But that's alright, because I love the way you lie.

I love the way you lie.

I love the way you lie.