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“You cannot love me,” the words left my mouth with such profound distaste. How could I receive admiration from a God that I do not deserve? The inability to veil over my throbbing scars aggravates me so: these pointers of the past that desecrates me into a person who can never be gazed upon, a person never to be loved. The timbre of my voice while saying those words expressed itself as a playful jest, but deep inside I yearn for something I cannot have, the opposite of what I bespoke; to hold in my arms a dream shared by a plethora of others, my exotic love. Painted hideously by these shameful stigmas, I deemed myself unworthy for such grace to even look me in the eye nor be touched in ways I longed for. I loathe myself in extreme, unfathomable depths that I concealed myself away from the person I adore; beneath the soles of his foot, surrounded by hell and the clamour of sinners lay awaste.
Perhaps those little meetings were a way of keeping myself sane. To come up with excuses just to scrutinize him up close; never straying too near, never straying too far. An adequate amount of distance between us should be observed, lest I become a slave to the temptation that surrounds my devotion towards his lavender eyes. And if the detestable were to occur, would he fashion my neck with a collar, or with his very own hands to keep me at bay? Heaven knows I am not created for love. What I am made for is to humble myself before my God and kneel before him as a tool and nothing more. I could never ask for his love, nor his solemn affections towards me, for it may as well be labeled as blasphemy to his superiority.
“You cannot love me, Neuvillette—” I took a step back, shaking my head.
Impossible. It cannot be. He must not.
“Save—must save yourself from me. I am a person who must not be loved, do you understand? I am not the right person for you, nor am I capable of living as long as you could. I am no saint, nor do I have divinity contained within me to last more than a lifetime with you. Loving me would mean pining for death. Loving a lost cause. You are the embodiment of justice itself, hence you must give your affections the same, for heaven cannot be found with me. It is merely a careless mistake to bear even a tinge admiration for me, no—perhaps, you mistook yearning for me with needing somebody else. My skin dictates misery itself—my hands—they are stained with blood and evil. How could I even touch you with this grotesqueness that I carry with me wherever I go?”
His eyebrows shaped into worry, and I could not bear meeting his gaze that I turned my head away. I looked everywhere—anywhere I could so long as it’s not my favorite pair of lavender hues.
I am not worthy, never would be.
My divinity, my God, please unveil your gaze upon me and only use me however you wish. I cannot ask for your love.
His hand finds itself on my cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing against the scar beneath my eye. I cleared my throat and refused to look at him. A tool cannot be held tenderly, nor should it carry love within itself. How could Neuvillette betray the heavens like this? How could he turn a blind eye to the commandments that must be upheld and love the worst in all of existence? How could—
“If the heavens disapprove of my loving you, then, the heavens may as well forget that I exist, my Wriothesley. If loving you would lead to my demise, then I shall die with a triumphant smile on my lips. I would choose you, repeatedly and without no end—you are incomparable to anything and everything else in existence—you are not torn because of your scars; you are not a person unworthy of being gazed upon. I adore you—I love you, even if this love is doomed to eternal damnation, I would choose you. Without fail. Without hesitation.”
He looked at me as though I am the universe itself. I could see my own reflection in his orbs, wavering, cowering almost—like a miserable pup at the brink of his owner’s mercy. God Almighty begs for his affections to be received, seals the proclamation with a kiss to my lips and a promise—that even if the world may crumble tomorrow, love shall last. Beyond the flesh, beyond dying breaths, beyond the last minutes of reliving memories; good or bad—love will never cease to exist. It would remain an engraving to the wind, soaring through the breeze in a whisper, sifting through interlaced fingers. If my God demands that I withdraw my reservations of being loved, I shall heed his word.