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Description
THIS IS SAD, SO TURN BACK NOW IF YOU WANT SOMETHING HAPPY!:

“(Name)” A voice cried, “Please open ze door.” Your small frame shook in the agony of your once lover and fiancee’s anguish. “Please, (name). Give me another chance!” You backed away, pressing your hands to your ears. No! You wouldn’t listen.

“Damn et! I know you ‘re en der! S'il vous plaît ma chérie. Pardonnez-moi! J'ai péché, et j'ai pu vous blesser. " He yelled, banging his fists against the door. “Please, mon cher! Please don’t le moi! S’e meant nothing! I know you can ‘ear me!”

You whimpered, a small broken sound. How could he do this to you? Beautiful, funny, smart, playful Francis. You had loved his as if he were the stars. And he had cheated on you with some, some, h-

Hoe, you were going to say. But you couldn't bring yourself to. Yes, surely the girl you had seen the love of your life in bed with, was a whore, a very beautiful whore. Many times more beautiful than you. Likely, the Frenchman had not been able to exist.

It had been, what? Two weeks ago? You were meant to be on a business trip. But you had come home early. It was like a bad movie. You went over to Francis’s apartment, and slipped inside, hoping to surprise him. You had heard moans and grunts from the bedroom, and had run as fast as you could to see if Francis was sick. You concern had turned so quickly into disbelief, rage, and despair. You turned and ran, and didn't stop until you were seven blocks away.

You just collapsed in an alley, and cried, until merciful sleep stole away the pain. It was stupid of course. Falling asleep at night in an alley in a big city. You could have been raped, or killed. But right then, you didn't care.

He’d called, day after day, message after message. You parents and friends had too. Eventually you stopped listening, and let your cell battery die out. The land line cord was ripped from the wall. Silence. With each day, your health got worse and worse. Eventually, you’d stopped eating altogether.

And now France was at your door. Eventually the repeated banging slowed to desperate, of beat thuds. Then silence. You could hear his heavy breathing, and the quiet sounds of his sobs. It would have broken your heart, had it been whole in the first place.

Your entire frame shook violently as you stumbled away from the door, toward your room. Your head hurt, and you just wanted to lie down. But then you turned back again, to stare at the door. Could you really leave it at that?

No. Something resembling determination took up residence in your soul, and you walked slowly toward the door. The once sinecure of turning the knob was now a true task with the trembling in your palms. Finally, with an ominous click, the door opened.

Francis, who had been pacing in front of the door, whipped around to face you. His usually stunning blond hair was tangled and greasy, his face was pale, much thinner than it should have been, and streaked with tears. He immediately stepped toward you, but you held out a hand.

The hope that had blossomed on his face was crushed by your unflinching eyes. “Francis.” Your voice didn't shake, but it didn't sound like you. It sounded, hysterical for some reason. The tone and words were perfectly reasonable and calm. But something about the hitch of your frenzied breath scared you. When you spoke next, thought, your voice was vacant, and cold as steel.

“ I will take my hate for you to the grave. Because god might forgive you, but I will never” On never, your quiet hiss turned into rageful shout “stop despising you, loathing you. Even in death.” And the you went back inside,curled up in a ball, and pressed you hands to your ears, so you wouldn't have to hear his sobs.

Description
THIS IS SAD, SO TURN BACK NOW IF YOU WANT SOMETHING HAPPY!:

“(Name)” A voice cried, “Please open ze door.” Your small frame shook in the agony of your once lover and fiancee’s anguish. “Please, (name). Give me another chance!” You backed away, pressing your hands to your ears. No! You wouldn’t listen.

“Damn et! I know you ‘re en der! S'il vous plaît ma chérie. Pardonnez-moi! J'ai péché, et j'ai pu vous blesser. " He yelled, banging his fists against the door. “Please, mon cher! Please don’t le moi! S’e meant nothing! I know you can ‘ear me!”

You whimpered, a small broken sound. How could he do this to you? Beautiful, funny, smart, playful Francis. You had loved his as if he were the stars. And he had cheated on you with some, some, h-

Hoe, you were going to say. But you couldn't bring yourself to. Yes, surely the girl you had seen the love of your life in bed with, was a whore, a very beautiful whore. Many times more beautiful than you. Likely, the Frenchman had not been able to exist.

It had been, what? Two weeks ago? You were meant to be on a business trip. But you had come home early. It was like a bad movie. You went over to Francis’s apartment, and slipped inside, hoping to surprise him. You had heard moans and grunts from the bedroom, and had run as fast as you could to see if Francis was sick. You concern had turned so quickly into disbelief, rage, and despair. You turned and ran, and didn't stop until you were seven blocks away.

You just collapsed in an alley, and cried, until merciful sleep stole away the pain. It was stupid of course. Falling asleep at night in an alley in a big city. You could have been raped, or killed. But right then, you didn't care.

He’d called, day after day, message after message. You parents and friends had too. Eventually you stopped listening, and let your cell battery die out. The land line cord was ripped from the wall. Silence. With each day, your health got worse and worse. Eventually, you’d stopped eating altogether.

And now France was at your door. Eventually the repeated banging slowed to desperate, of beat thuds. Then silence. You could hear his heavy breathing, and the quiet sounds of his sobs. It would have broken your heart, had it been whole in the first place.

Your entire frame shook violently as you stumbled away from the door, toward your room. Your head hurt, and you just wanted to lie down. But then you turned back again, to stare at the door. Could you really leave it at that?

No. Something resembling determination took up residence in your soul, and you walked slowly toward the door. The once sinecure of turning the knob was now a true task with the trembling in your palms. Finally, with an ominous click, the door opened.

Francis, who had been pacing in front of the door, whipped around to face you. His usually stunning blond hair was tangled and greasy, his face was pale, much thinner than it should have been, and streaked with tears. He immediately stepped toward you, but you held out a hand.

The hope that had blossomed on his face was crushed by your unflinching eyes. “Francis.” Your voice didn't shake, but it didn't sound like you. It sounded, hysterical for some reason. The tone and words were perfectly reasonable and calm. But something about the hitch of your frenzied breath scared you. When you spoke next, thought, your voice was vacant, and cold as steel.

“ I will take my hate for you to the grave. Because god might forgive you, but I will never” On never, your quiet hiss turned into rageful shout “stop despising you, loathing you. Even in death.” And the you went back inside,curled up in a ball, and pressed you hands to your ears, so you wouldn't have to hear his sobs.