The steady, relentless ticking of the clock resting on the bedside table, buzzed furiously against his numb ears. His tired limbs lay frozen on the hard, rocky slab of a stone that served as his bed. Every bruise and every cut that marred feeble body, just reminded him about the harsh sentence called life that he was serving; although he was plainly faultless. He shifted his body away from the window and tried to protect his bare torso from the chilling, biting winds that circled around him. He crouched into a small curve, his hands wrapped forcefully round his long legs that were pressed against his upper body. He glanced at the barren room surrounding him and groaned a long, agonizing sigh of aching. He shut his eye lids tightly, seemingly trying to distance himself from the pain and misery he would soon have to encounter. He tasted his salty tears on his lips. He cried.

         I lay down on my hard bed and tried not to toss and turn around too much. The gnashes on my body were still fresh and the jagged ends of my rigid bed seemed hell bent on ripping opening my barely healed wounds. I swallowed painfully and felt the taste of blood trickle down my throat. My blood. Lifting one hand, I sorely brought it close to my cheek and let it rest there at the exact same spot he had struck. His rough, coarse hand had crashed forcefully into my sunken in left cheek. I had felt no pain. Just, a sudden gushing of blood rush down my throat. But, the blow was not what bothered me. It was the touch. The inexpressible sensation I had experienced as his large, brown hand grazed past my cheek. That tempting sensation of pleasure.

           I wanted to raise my hand up and grasp his hand. I wanted to let my hand intertwine in his. I wanted to rest my hand in the safety of his, although I knew he was the one I needed shelter from. It was ironic. I longed for protection from the very person I dreaded. And loved.

           It was hard. It was maddening. Every single day from ever since I could remember, he had tortured me, vandalized me. He had slaughtered, killed mercilessly, hordes of innocent mortals. I had watched multitudes of them die before my very eyes. Eyes which ought to have been shielded from malignant cruelty of this sort, but instead was exposed to it all from youth. I ought to have cried, but I didn’t. I ought to have gaped with horror at the dreadful massacres my master was crafting. I ought to have instilled in me a vehement sort of hateful detestation against the tyrant whom I served. I ought to have loathed him.

           But, then again, I did not. I could not. He was my life. He brought me pain and desolation. He moulded me into a slave. He struck me, he pierced me, and he scalded me. He hurt me callously, pitilessly, all for the amusement he attained out of it. But even then, I plodded on. I refused to stand up to him. I was and am pathetic, I will acknowledge; and to add to that, I’m pusillanimous as well. But, my steady denial to go against him had a far more unorthodox reason behind it. Although, simple, it was one no one would ever suspect. I was severely, utterly and madly in love with him, fashioning my one-sided love story.

            Every wallop I would receive from his hand was precious, almost like an intangible memory. The acute pain that lingered was a nonentity, merely an annoying sensation I had to endure. I loved the lethal treatment he would subject me to, because more often than not, it would always result in him advancing towards me. He would hit, scratch, burn, but it was worth it for the rare instants of transitory pleasure I would sense as his rough skin brushed past a fragment of mine. Paradise, heaven, nirvana… call it whatever you please, but the bliss I extracted out of those little moments was ecstasy.

             He plucked out slaves from the mass as though picking up pebbles from the street. He collected the ones he thought would do well and for those he didn’t need, he disposed of them…forever. He amassed servants. No one was given a choice whether or not they would like to serve him or not; it was but a lofty assumption on his part. An assumption no one dared to prove wrong. He was feared, he let loose terror among the people. Laymen dreaded him, heroes evaded him, and monarchs chose to disregard him. He was too powerful to be stopped, too far-gone to be righted and too heartless to care. And I served him. I served the raging terror of the world.

             In my justification, I wasn’t completely irrational in adoring him. Indeed, I have a pretty decent reason to. He was heavenly to such a degree that it almost made him seem unearthly. I rest back and let his heavily scarred face float before my weary eyelids. He wasn’t flawless, he didn’t have smooth, unblemished skin and he definitely wasn’t blessed with a pleasant countenance and the fact that he rarely smiled didn’t help either. And, if I may say so, he was plainly just the reverse. His face was cripplingly marred with almost half a dozen long cuts streaking across his face and his hands, though large, were bitingly rough. His mien was decidedly rugged, almost radiating a brutal warning to stay away. But, beyond the clearly visible scars and marks there lay a handsome, even attractive face that could melt hearts with just a little more than a smile.

            And his eyes, perhaps the most arresting part of his features, were what drove me maniacal. They were flawlessly rounded, curving ever so perfectly at the edges. His eyes allured me, captured me. Those eyes were the fixed reason why I wouldn’t or rather, couldn’t leave him. They weren’t just hard, beady, colourless pebbles that swerved to and fro, but they seemed to thrive in a life of their own. Intense, dark hazel brown eyes that would gaze straight at you with a ferocity that seemed to burn into you. They were much too striking to look at, that often, they would repel more than they could entice. But, nonetheless, there was a startling sort of moist poignancy in the watery depths that seemed to cry out for relief. His eyes were, possibly, the only portion of his body that still persisted on, wholly human.

             Another, almost unfairly enticing feature that he flaunted was the only precision he did own – His flawlessly sculpted physique. Perfectly symmetrical, he wasn’t in receipt of an overly robust structure. But, rather, a lean, almost gaunt form accompanied his rugged visage. He was tall in stature, towering high over most individuals he encountered. Though, not excessively muscular in his figure, he emitted a self-assured, almost poised air. His form attracted the interested eyes of many, but admirers seldom came up to him to form an acquaintance.

           He was a hard tyrant, a merciless autocrat, a ruthless assassin, a brutal master, a roguishly mesmerizing turpitude and…he was my only love. He was Choi Minho.