It's story time... If you think I need help now... Don't read this. I warn you now that it's not happy, it's actually quite morbid and evil. I warn you now that there is death.


Lovely

Slow and antagonizing death is in store for you, my love. Picking up my knife, already darkened by my crimson filth that flowed freely earlier in the night. All alone in my house, you cower into a corner. The very corner where the dishes are stored; I would know, I had just washed them after I ate my soul. I knew I was, as you say, damned from the beginning. You with your God.. Where is he now, as I stand before your sobbing, trembling form. If he were truly real, why hasn't he struck me down for wanting to make you feel every pain I've felt. Why hasn't he struck me down for wanting to kill is number one fan? I glare as you begin to plead. You plead for you sorry excuse for a life because you know that I'm going to steal it away from you, as you stole my heart. And like you did with my heart, I am going to destroy. I won't go fast, there would be no point; I want and need to repay you for all the pain and lying I have endured, my dear.

You have made me into this; this cold-hearted monster you've brought out in me... This isn't me. You had gotten to know the real me, but now you've broken me; you've pushed me off the edge that I only had one foot on to begin with. Being with you had strengthened me in the beginning, but over the months you've weakened me and now, you have broken my heart and twisted my already torn soul. And I tell you so, screaming at myself for feeling the familiar burn in my throat. Crying is for the weak; and weak I had been, I had cried all my tears so there were no tears to cry even if I wanted to.

I begin caressing the knife, telling you exactly how I feel for the first time in weeks, even months. I see the emotions flicker in your emerald eyes; I can see the realization hit you hard. You realize that I'm not joking around, starring at the fresh wounds on my scarred arm, making fresh trails of crimson tears which fall with a steady drop to the white linoleum kitchen floor, that otherwise was immaculate. The realization that I was truly and finally going to kill you, after so many months of pain.

I pull you into a sitting position where I could fully access your tanned and muscular arm. Positioning the knife at the bend of your elbow, you don't even attempt to move away. I smile, thoroughly enjoying every move I make and that you refuse to make. You're trying to prove that you're strong enough to deal with a little pain. Oh how I find your innocence delectable. You have no idea of the pain that will soon envelope your entire being.

Dragging the already stained knife across your arm, following the vein the leads to your wrist, I push in deep enough to cause a waterfall of blood, but not enough to cause you to pass out, leaving our lesson to be enjoyed by the unconscious. Your breath hitches it your chest; you aren't used to this kind of pain and I am not treating you like the virgin to the blade that you are.

I let out a short, cold laugh, fed by your shocked, scared look. Oh how you wish you had never unleashed me; oh how you wish this wasn't happening. I know because I know you better than anyone else in the world, and I know what you feel when you feel it. That is what obsession does to you, you know? No, you wouldn't know; you've never been obsessed and your words of love, adoration and beauty were laced with lies. You have never known true love, my darling. You have never been driven to insanity by it. I take it upon myself to deliver my love for you in the form of a blade, covered in my own blood.

I blow on your cut, causing the stinging to increase ten-fold. I am looking to cause you as much pain as I can, while showing you my undying love, my dear. Do you understand?

I take the knife and drag in a horizontal line, creating an upside down cross for your viewing pleasure. Personally, I know that you won't see it for very long, but it is enough to cause your mind to frantically beg your God for forgiveness; that it was not your fault for bestowing the Devil's mark upon your toughened skin. I roll my eyes, knowing how much your religion means to you. I laugh because I know that there is no Heaven or Hell; nowhere except the cold hard dirt where worms and pesticides resided, waiting to nibble on your flesh.

I take my knife against your skin innumerable times before I am slightly satisfied. But I do have some self-control; I know that if I continue you will faint from blood loss, so I stop even though I am compelled to continue causing you physical damage. I know that I have already inflicted enough mental damage to last a lifetime or two.

I help you to stand and direct you up to my room where I would allow you to rest, your wounds to heal and your blood to replenish. You lay down and fall asleep almost immediately, but not before staring at me with your pleading eyes. It shakes me, I must admit. I don't even bother tying you down; I know you won't go anywhere.

As you sleep, I watch, registering everything that floats across your sleeping face. My guards drop as I see you, completely relaxed; an emotion that I hadn't witnessed or felt in a long time. Suddenly I realize how much I miss you; how much I want to see you happy and relaxed instead of scared and uptight. I find that now, while you're asleep and completely defenseless, is when my love for you isn't violent. I can't help myself, having you so willing and unaware. I lean down, capturing your luscious lips with my own feminine lips. Unintentionally, you lean into the kiss, offering yourself and so much more.

Your eyes open slowly to reveal questioning brown, that shows that you're more than a little disbelieving. I allow myself this moment of weakness; I want this more than anything. I even allow you to see the old me, partially. My plans for dragging out your death seem to be impossible, now that I have given in to your delicious essence.

I trust that I have dealt you enough pain, both physical and mental, to convince myself that now is the time to kill you, without pain, instead of later on in the night, with pain.

Telling you much I love you, I grasp the gun under my bed. I take aim, never letting my lips leave yours. Pulling the trigger, I allow myself to be ashamed; I allow myself to be devastated at what I have done. I allow myself to shed one last tear before I pull the trigger once more, relieving the gun of it's second and final bullet; allowing myself to feel the agony and release of my soul. And I know no more.