Because nothing is as good as you can imagine it. No one is as beautiful as she is in your head. Nothing is as exciting as your fantasy.
Ironically in his sadistic consciousness, she is not a fantasy.She lives in the darkest depths of his mind that he keeps secured. Chestnut locks that spill over a petite frame; a flower he would pluck over and over till she withers in his hold and begs for him to touch her. And oh, he does touch her—fingertips that creep across the surface of her ashen skin. He inhales her scent like she’s roses, and those ruby lips invite his own. The interlocking of lips is desperate, the contact of heated skin driving him mad with fervor. When daylight breaks through the blinds, he’s sitting up on the edge of his bed, reaching for her, trying to touch her and suddenly she vanishes into smoke. She is no longer here, he reminds himself till the words cling to him like the cloying stench of cigarettes on fraying clothes."Shut the fuck up, you never knew her like I did. You have no idea."Ironically in his sadistic consciousness, they were real.










