Despite the disdainful glances and words he might meet for this feeling harbouring deep in his chest. This ever growing like, the manic craving he has, For the hollow woman. The crazed man could not help but feel love.
Her skin as white as a rotten corpse — more than that really — the green tint accentuating her sunken cheeks.
Her eyes were darker than the abyss, she sent most people into maddening ramblings of despair — after giving them a stern look — with those black pits she audaciously referred to as orbs.
Her sly grin constantly morphing into different imitations of people.
The most stand out feature, the giant slit in her belly. A self inflicted wound. The hollow woman had no organs or means of reproduction. The woman had a disgusting inside and outside. Her personality simply parroting others, who she had inflicted suffering upon.
Even her body was a copy of a taboo girl, simply a cheap duplicate, a nonexistent woman. The hollow thing.
She held no morals or understanding of emotions. She had no concept of good or bad and never would. She was made artificially for a purpose. The hollow woman was a copied body mixed with a nonexistent personality that imitated whatever you showed most likeliness too. There was no woman — there wasn't even a person — an amalgamation of strung up memories. Fragmented memories from a harlot much grander than her.
The man still could not help but feel his heart beat, the ever growing maniacs love.
He held his hand close to his chest, looking up with smiling eyes. The man's love and devotion was most probably not something the woman could understand.
So as he closed his heavy eyes, he saw her for one last time. The hollow woman showed no emotion at all. He was content with that, perhaps he thought some of his love could transfer into the corpses soul.
Perhaps if he stayed a bit longer, He would have noticed the flicker of sadness.