Shes the girl from high school that you thought was beautiful. A quiet one who was well liked yet didnt talk much, but was always happy to speak when spoken to or share a joke with other people. But not with you. You would be scared to speak to her or, if you did, she would ignore you or give you a short, dismissive reply and avoid you. But she always smelled nice, looked nice and you wanted to feel the touch of her soft hands, something you could never hope to attain. Given she was being mean to you and still wanting her touch only comes together in one mode: physical abuse. You want to smell her vanilla perfume intertwining with the scent of iron from your blood, hear a hammering sound and wonder where its coming from as your body aches all over, distorting your senses, feel her delicate fists crashing into your skin in a most savage way that doesnt suit her image of quiet girl, but envelops her with a tailor made intimidating complexion. But then, you havent seen her in years and still hold on to a memory of what clothes she wore, what purfume she chose, what she said to other people while you just watched.