It's Your ***in' Nightmare (Or Is It Mine?)

Hello. I suppose you would like to know my name. But why? It would serve you no purpose. It wouldn’t get you off and it wouldn’t make you fear me any more than you should. So what’s the point?
My story begins with a man. A beautiful man. A man who had such a heart that it had to be mine. I’ve decided that you don’t need to know his name either. Because it’s a name that I’ve carved into my arm a dozen times over and even spoke into his ear. It’s a name that I hold above all else.
So let’s just call this man Vengeance.
Well, the first time I saw Vengeance was outside a bar. He was laughing and his face was red with poison. Two whores were accompanying him and they giggled as he teased and touched them clumsily. He was in bad shape.
Even underneath his drunken appearance, I saw his beauty. Here, my obsession began. I began to see his face in everybody I saw, I would follow him around when I saw it really was him, and I memorized his routines. Soon, I dug myself into his life, making myself his friend. If he didn’t like something about me, I changed. Eventually, I became perfect in his eyes. I made sure I was everything he wanted.
And then I started manipulating him. I made him bisexual. I showed him things he never even heard of. I made him what I wanted him to be.
We were happy for a while. But the twisting I had done to him started taking its toll. He suddenly was too much of everything I taught him. He was getting smarter. He knew what I had done to him. He retaliated and fought against me, finally snapping from the tension I had put him under.
I let him hit me for a while; scream at me for changing him so dramatically. Finally, I stopped him and pinned him against the wall. He stared at me, his green eyes wild. I saw so many mixed emotions there. Pain, love, admiration, hate, outrage, fear. I reached up to touch his face and he closed his eyes.
So angelic, he was. I had leaned in and touched my lips gently to his. He opened his eyes and watched me.
“I’m sorry.” I had said. He stayed silent, as I knew he would, and reached his hand up and touched my hair and ran his fingers through it. I closed my eyes.
“No. You aren’t. But I forgive you anyways.” he said. I had reopened my eyes and watched him. He smiled at me, making my heart flutter. I looked down.
“Thank you.”
And I meant it.
He left me a little while after that incident. He just packed up and left, without any warning.
But there were warnings, that nagging little voice in the back of my consciousness reminded me. And there had been. There were the strange silences, the obviously faked smiles. I ignored them, thinking it was minor depression.
When he was gone, no trace of him was left in my house. It was empty, barren without him. I had curled up in a corner and stared at the wall, rocking back and forth for days. I didn’t cry, or try to find him in desperation. I just stayed in the corner and rocked back and forth like I lost my mind.
In some ways, I did.
It had been days since I had last eaten. I was starving, but I didn’t care. I had nothing else to live for. I hadn’t opened my eyes recently. They were crusted over. My lips and mouth were drier than a fucking desert. Did I care? Guess again. Nope. I didn’t care.
I felt a light touch on my cheek and I sighed, knowing it was only my twisted mind fucking with my heart. I could almost feel his lips on my face, could almost feel his tears as he watched me tear myself apart. I forced my eyes open, tearing out a few eyelashes, and saw that it was as I knew it was. A hallucination, a delusion of mine. I had known. I closed my eyes again and sighed.