Author- WARNING, BLOOD, Psychopathic behavior, GORE
This is not for people who are young, easily influenced to do stupid things, or who are easily disturbed by gory fiction.

The sun is setting over the horizon, my love.

So slowly, coolly, and yet so dull.

I wonder why I sit by the sands of time, and hope that the grains will reverse it's fall, and hit the top with the sound of soft rain, to notify me that I can do what I lost the chance to do, before the specks of salt hit the ground like harsh lightening; it's aftershock rumbling in my pitted set of emotions.

Restless blistered callused fingers, of my own, pull over the water, of a fountain made with marble, grey, dull, ancient.
But as my fingers pull against the liquid softly, like a ghosts touch, I feel your soft strands of hair entwine with my tips.

And as if it were on flame, I pull away, and hiss.
And as if it were in pain, I hug it against my chest, lean over against it, and rock back and forth as if trying to calm myself and regain composure.

I bet, this is the pain of loss.
The feeling of left behind shock.
Proof of presented fact that I have gone mental.
And the evidence lies with my every action, as if a new life organism researching all that he sees; with observant eyes, jerky movements; an awkward aura clings to my every breath.

My every word hooks your name with every drop, and it will not part from my lips.

It leaves me confused, hazed.

I, without a doubt, committed this terrible sin, this pain, this loss.
And I dare not imagine the suffering that was bestowed upon you.

But just thank the heavens that now your every wound and bruise are forever healed in your second birth, and that you are no longer in pain.

Can the simple word of apology forgive?

The single word, 'sorry', cure the masses of mistakes, of terrible crime?

I did not think I would snap.

When you told me the agonizing words of departure, when you stomped your feet in place and yelled at me that you were forever leaving, that I was your intolerable fuse, I lost it.

My body moved on it's own like a puppet, being pulled by its strings.
Hands cupped the hilt of the large kitchen knife used by our hired servants, the same knife I commonly used to prepare you meals...

And I chased you.

I'm twisted, I know this clearly because I'm smirking to hold back a chuckle as your scampering away, clearly played like a film in my head.

You saw the shine of the blade against the hallway lights, I could tell, because your eyes were just wide enough to twinkle as the glare scanned your angelic face.

You dashed like one usually would from a killer; shot through every small crack, every door, circled any large piece of furniture to distance us.

You skidded, and tripped many times. But got up just as quickly and kept going, kept running for the door.

But I stood against it, like a guard, chaining you in, keeping you with me, just like it should be, forever.

And just as fast as the shark swallows its prey in its sharp teeth, you slid towards me as I head towards you.

Without even a jerk, twist, or thrust of my weapon, your throat flung into it.

I was staring at the hilt the whole time, at my pale hand stained with rubies, with bloody rain drops.

But I think I avoided your face because of the nearly theatrical, unrealistic sound of a hose spraying streams of water.

But it was your neck, as the other side hid from me, I knew very well it was the blades tip sticking out from behind you.

You know, I was not ignorant that you were still alive, that this did not kill you immediately.
That you were in too much shock to even notice the pain at that moment, and that even if you would soon feel it, you would only drown and choke until you bled to death, because I did not hit your bronchial tubes.

I remember seeing you blink hastily, not moving, standing rather still, as the blade also sat like stone in your throat; remember the wide blue eyes staring down at it like a venomous snake about to spring.

And slowly, even while your lips mouthed continuously, I pulled it out, scared, in awe.

That's why I avoided your face. I couldn't believe the situation either, what I had done.

It seemed so fake.

My mind was completely lost, floating as if in a high, that all was hazy, my every movement caused dizzy spells. I was sure this was a nightmare.

But, I felt no fear.

So during that moment the blade slid out as if it were jammed in-between two sponges of axle grease, I was convinced that it was just a simple dream.

Not crazy, not frightening, not bad. Just a dream.

I was….

Fascinated.

My psychopathic grin as I slowly cradled you to the ground as I pressed a hand against your back as you fell to your knees, I still remember it, can still feel it against my facial tissues.

And helplessly, frightened, you stared up at me, frantically swallowing and coughing up pools of blood that sprinkled out like a sprinkler from your throat, from your lips.

Your body trembled, pulsated, as if you were having a mini seizure.

But I knew it was your trouble to keep the liquids from flooding the caverns of your mouth.

My hands curled up, my fingers cracked.

I am a demon.

I can clearly see, as I close my eyes, your head bobbing from left to right against the ground as I lowered the knife to your arm that I held up towards my chest, visible to you, I made sure of it.

You knew I was testing this new epiphany of enjoyment.

But even though your gargles nearly became loud bubbly screams, or the level of pooling blood expanded as you over exerted yourself with each lunge against the pain.

May I admit, that it was pure ecstasy at the moment? And now say that I am only frightened?

Selfishly admit that I was scared, when you were clearly so scared, and in pain, that you only wanted me to stop every time I drove the knife deeper, or dragged it along your beautiful skin longer?

I am a selfish demon.

I deserve nothing but the pit of flames and torture below.

Not once, not ten times, or twenty, fifty, one hundred. It was nearly over a thousand.

And I unconsciously slit carefully to keep you awake, which astonished me with all the blood coloring the floorboards.

When you passed out, I was angry.

Angry that you dared suggest leaving me, insulted me, that you wanted to call our future deals off to live a new more 'tolerable' life surrounded by 'tolerable' people.

And that anger built into an explosion of hate.

I declared amongst those moments in a spat, that I wish you were dead, because I could not tolerate you.

No, no more could I.

Your stubborn character, you aura of majesty, your demands and orders.

I am not, was not your slave dear one, I am not, was not your dog, and I am not, nor will I ever be, an angel to kiss your feet any longer when the limit exceeds its gauge.

And then, I frowned, now, like at that very moment.

Only now, it's full of regret.

Back then, it was full of displeasure.

Because as I stared at your once beautiful flesh, pale yet flawless, I noticed how disgusting it looked.

Full of cuts, small, big, deep, thick, thin.

Some that already dried the blood around it, creating light dark clots of new scabs.

And your throat.

Oh, my dear, I noticed at that very second…. You were no longer my core center of purpose and time.

You were a pile of rags and blood.

A mess, smelling wildly of your spilling fluids.

You reeked.

You were no longer a part of me, or for me.

And I hated you.

My hand, it fisted, and moved up just like that moment.

I rose my hand over your chest, ignoring your quickly bubbling gargles and drowned moans, muffled by the building pool in your throat, however, it was clearly attempt of a shout to stop me, and…

My hand, fisted, knocked downward.

The blade fell like a falling domino piece, tilted, and sliced directly into the left area of your chest.

I remember hearing the blades tip bounce off the bones, your ribs, as it directed its path towards your disgusting heart.

And, like the sound of thick shoes crunching dried fallen leaves over pavement, the sound of your slit muscle played up my arm and into my skull.

Those split seconds as I committed something awful, I was looking to your face for only a glimpse that seemed to last as if I were staring.

Your body shot up against the impact, your face cringed, but oh so flawlessly, your hands shot up in half clenched grasps towards me.

And the second the nauseating sound proved your end, you dropped like the obvious corpse you were against the floor, eye wide, staring towards me.

At the moment, I had gotten up to my feet with no difference, completely lacking a phased composition, as if nothing happened.

Even though I stood while keeping my cool eyes to your corpse, my mind registered nothing, saw nothing.

As if nothing around me was there.

Just a normal room, with non-tampered and tossed furniture, no blood, no body, no knife.

And just like I would normally do when I was bored, I changed into a rather comfortable pair of clothing, and left the house without a word; I decided that a walk around the area would wake me from my sudden boredom.

I am terrible.

Somehow, and it astounds me now, if it weren't for my magnificent contract, which allows a deep protection and concealment of any destruction action committed by me, I had gotten off the suspicion list.

There were no connection that said he was wanting to split with me, no evidence that could be found after I had burned it all away till I made sure it was nothing but grains of sand.

Supposedly, the other person who defended you was accused of having a somewhat deep connection.

They were framed with your death on the account of jealousy. She was a noble, rather young, rather blond.

I stare at the hour glass I made, that sits at my side as I sit atop the rim of this dull fountain, outside of the mansion, and notice your every grain of ash drop to the bottom, until you're all cluttered and immobile.

I simply turn the hour glass over, and stare again as you pour down like a river.

My sins, my actions, my crime, never to be punished.

But my heart, it will forever be shattered as if the whip of judgment bit into my flesh, for my crime.

And the ash continuously pour every grain, the hour glass slowly counting, the days since I killed you.

My dear Ciel.


Author- I edited some, but I wrote this a LONG time ago.