"Egotistical madman in love," is what they'd snicker about. "How can a God praise another being?" To Him, the answer was simple: How could anyone—God or otherwise—not fall to their knees for a woman like Her? Now, it's not like the madman believes in those meaningless theories of love; the ones that mortals give into—"Love at first sight," they fawned. Pathetic, is what He thought. Pointless. Yet, how is it that He fell victim to something so idiotic? And why did it work so well?
The moment He locked eyes with the alluring woman in lavender, the so-called God turned into the embodiment of an obsessive nightmare. Within the safety of His own bedroom, He stayed up day and night writing letters about Her; Her beauty and Her elegance; His love for Her and the things He wanted to do with Her. Those letters would never reach Her—and neither would the paintings He made of Her. He memorized Her face from every angle, in every expression, in every style. He enjoyed painting Her in outfits He wished to put Her in—to dress Her up and groom her like His own personal doll—only if She agreed to be.
And even if She were to be His doll, that didn't mean He wouldn't kneel before Her and follow Her every command. To Him, She was His God. Every night, at the end of His bed, He'd look up to His ceiling and pray to Her. "My divine Lucia: May you continue to bless me with your presence and may you allow me to see another tomorrow. Or may you punish me; break me until I lie at your feet. Your command is what keeps me alive. You are my sanctuary. You are my heart, my light, my everything. Thank you for letting me walk this Earth by your side."
What is love, if not like this?