Dancing Doll

I don't believe what I hear for a second. My racing mind denies all of this. She is mistaken. At eighteen, she doesn't know what love is. All she knows is sex and her supposed journalism career. She is no adult deserving of affection going further than being worshipped for her body and once beautiful personality.
My attraction to her is a simple aromantic appreciation of melancholic young women, a dying breed to pop culture and superficiality in society. She is an enigma to these factors that pollute the human conscience, transforming teens into doddering clones that walk our streets mentally vacant.
I was fixated on her entire being. For two years. Now looking at her, I no longer see a young adult, but a preteen bouncing on her bed in front of her TV screen to the latest heartthrob jerks they call celebrities. I have no obligation to love her. No will. Simply put, the idea makes me want to put a 9mm in my mouth. Bang, the firearm goes, the shot expelling itself from the barrel to my throat and through my maladaptive brain, the regret having no time to settle in, my last vision before death, if I have one with through my rapidly languishing conscious like they say, not being of her.
She sits on the pillow, staring at me expectantly. Her hazel eyes are now giant pools of emotion as they travel to the burgundy silk bed sheets and back up my toned body.
She doesn't understand the weight and capacity of these manipulative words. In my personal philosophy, it is foolish to fall for someone not knowing of their past and present. Does she know I fuck patients continually to this day? This dancing doll twirls her pink and red ribbons around her body having not a single clue, her deceived essence being trapped in a cage of bars that continue to feed her infantile mind lie after lie, ideology after ideology. She eats it up like the baby she is, my mental anguish caving in on my patience. Which I have a lot of until this very moment where she says my name.
"Yes?" I answer.
"I've upset you." Melody says quickly. "I didn't mean it like a stupid virgin. It felt so good. I felt it in my–"
"You had an orgasm, that's all." I say sternly. "It made you a little excited so you said the first thing to come to your mind."
I can't help but look away from her crestfallen face. The same face she wore during her first visit to my psych ward. Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, her expression was either grave or despondent, a pure representation of her mental health falling inward on her. My obligation to accommodate her in that period must live inside of her today.
My fingers slightly curl, tempted to create a fist at her ignorance. I wonder why she doesn't see me for who I am, being the investigative mind she is. I take advantage of the sick, and despite soothing their negative emotions with sex, I am a culprit of impregnating eleven young woman that I simply referred to abortion clinics, paid for their procedures and pushed them out of my perimeter. I am a mere bastard. Truly.
I say this with pure respect to reality. The world is a dark place in where your closest friends talk shit amongst themselves in your absence, Freudian theories are relative to demoralizing circumstances we face, laws are put in place just to keep victims silent and starved for power, and the general list goes on. I consume injustice as much as I despise it:
It is not my job to remove the splinter the put in her own foot.
"Never say those words to me again, my angel." I warn. Fucking loathe the way my accent causes her eyes to light up in pure admiration of my off-limits demeanour.
She shrinks in response.
"I understand." Her words are strained, as though she tells lies to herself on the regular, another thing I don't know about her.
"Good."