He shot me.
In a daze, I saw his golden shoulder-length hair spread out, exuding a hint of warmth. I saw his gentle but cold face. The moment I fell, he stretched out his hand to catch me - cold and slender - I could even feel the feeling of his bones sticking into me - Satanic God. I desperately sucked in his taste and the fishy sweetness mixed with my blood.
Four years, he imprisoned me for four years, from that day on. He provided me with food and drink, but he never talked to me. He was cold. And I have long been used to it, and I have never thought about running away - from the day the bullet flew towards me, I was obsessed with him, for no reason.
Until he said, "It's been four years, are you still willing to leave - leave me?" I felt a feverish and boiling joy injected into the preheated position on the left side of my chest. That living beating made me think I had been saved, but I never realized that it was just the gentle honey-colored prelude to stepping into the gate of hell...