It was the aftermath that got her. She felt like a one-girl apocalypse, a walking demonstration of a

It was the aftermath that got her. She felt like a one-girl apocalypse, a walking demonstration of all that was done with society. When he was done, and left her to herself for a little while. He would shower, read a book, cook something, and she’d be left to just think. She hated that, but she needed it. To just think. To let the thoughts wash over her, and try to swim through them. Try not to drown. The attraction was the same, though. Society revelled in the destruction of itself, and that’s what she found solace in, too. To watch herself broken down, almost an out of body experience, watching from the corner of her eye, and then be pushed back into that fresh new form, something that had been deconstructed, reconstituted into something new. Finding out about the sudden change, testing the new outlines of herself, was both fascinating and masochistic, all at once. She got off on such a pain, though, languished in the emotional distress of it all. It was watching herself being brought down while she was bathing in pleasure, awash with ecstasy. It was the exquisite mix of self destruction and rebirth, and she did it over and over again. Until she was some mutant expression of herself, an impressionistic flourish that was just as much him as her.  Not that she minded. Not that she ever minded. She just enjoyed it, let it sit. And threw away the parts she didn’t like, and kept those she did. Better every time. -- source link

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