“I hate him,” she swears. And her hands clench into fists, so tight that the nails create little crescent shapes in her palms.
“I hate him,” she promises. And her hands shake so violently she has to steady herself.
“I hate him,” she repeats. Once, twice, three times. “I hate him.”
But even a stranger could see by the fire in her eyes that she does not hate him. A passerby could take her hands and the little crescent shaped marks and see his name scrawled into her skin. She does not hate him. But she wants to, oh she wants to.