He could no longer see the goodness, feel the warmth from the light that emanated from within her; no longer cared or believed her claims of love. For the vile hurtful words of truth penetrated deep, daggers slung with precision, straight to the heart. But instead of pulling them out and assessing the damage his truth perpetuated, in an attempt to heal his own wounds and those he inflicted on others, he preferred to leave them there to fester, become diseased, possibly be the death of him; so he could once again coast on pity, feigning the victim, while easing his conscience in convincing himself that she was just like all the rest. When in truth, there had never been another like her, nor would there ever be again.
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