Two bodies lay across the floor in such a way that they could be perceived as one.
Lips pressed against lips.
Skin pressed against skin.
The sweet scent of sweat lingering in the room.
They were in love.
Sweet innocent love.
That's what he made her believe, anyways.
For when he swung at her for the first time, leaving a red imprint where his lips usually lay, he convinced her that he would never hurt her again.
And when he slammed her up against the wall, choking the dear life out of her, he convinced her that it was her fault that she was so difficult to please.
And when the saccharine vanilla candles were replaced by the new collection of bottles, the endless nights of intimacy replaced by screaming and slamming doors, and the once innocent infatuation replaced by pleading and endless tears, he convinced her that he truly loved her.
And she believed him.
For he was her first, and, to her, every hit, every insult, every tear that found its way down her cheek was true, sweet, innocent love.