a/n: I was going through my old ringtones, and came across 'Monster' by Meg & Dia. I immediately placed it with Naminé, and this drabble was born.
I've never played CoM, and don't know Marluxia but through select pieces of fanfiction. If I get him wrong, I apologize.

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His little whispers; "love me, love me.
That's all I ask for, love me, love me."

The smell of roses, once so romantic, now only made her shudder and think of him.

He came to visit her the most often – more than Axel, more than Larxene. He always arrived in the middle of the day that never came (or the night that never ended) with a fresh bouquet of fear and a smile that was much too predatory for a self-proclaimed herbivore. He would stand in front of her little chair in that little room that only got smaller as he got closer.

Little, little, little girl. Slowly, slowly shrinking

He would talk and talk and talk for hours (but what was time to them, anyway?) about useless, silly, stupid things. And he would ignore her clenched fist and piercing glare, smothering them with a grin full of rose petals that fell to the canvas at their feet in droplets.

("Naminé, why is there blood on the floor?")

And then he would leave.

And it would start all over again; a new bed of roses marking the tile, a new bundle of terror to replace the old.

But some days, it was different.

That night he caged her; bruised and broke her.

She didn't remember a lot of what happened (they told her to erase that boy's memory; they never said she couldn't erase her own) but every so often a vine would creep in and lightly scrape her mind with its thorns, causing her to gasp and cry tears as transparent and weak as she.

Because they weren't real tears. Not really. They were as fake as his laugh and his touch and his kiss and –

Naminé shut her eyes.

Violet wrists and then her ankles; silent pain.
Then he slowly saw their nightmares were his dreams.

Bruises blossomed on her cheeks and her arms and her hips in forget-me-not blue and lavender purple. (Remember me forever; I don't trust you.)

She was his own personal garden, and the pain that he planted was in full bloom.

"You've never looked prettier, love."

Monster; how should I feel?
Creatures lie here, looking through the windows.
I will hear their voices,
I'm a glass child.

His voice carried the scent of rhododendron (beware, beware) as he complimented her latest masterpiece; eyes forever watching in a world of darkness that was disturbed only by a single red rose at the bottom of the page.

She had been bracing herself for another flower to add to her collection, but her monster only smirked. He smirked and he laughed and he walked away.

But the eyes stayed where they were.

The (little, little) girl ripped the page roughly, tearing it to pieces and throwing the ruins onto the floor that wasn't as white as it used to be - as it should have been. They settled in, making friends among the litter of petals (dying, dying) that were slowly turning to dust.

And Naminé?

Naminé sat. She sat and she found herself unable to cry, unable to grow, unable to move and stretch her roots.

So she slowly began to wilt.