A/N: Ewewew first person. What is wrong with me, writing like that. I hate first person. But I love this story~! I based it off a poem I write that was also just mindless gore. x3 'Tis madly fun. Anyway, written from Nny's point of view. Enjoy.

I played the perfect gentlemen. I played the role of the perfect man, and it lured her right into my grasp. I am a master actor. There are no holes in my tight knit quilt of lies. She is caught in my web.

I hold the door for her, flashing a smile as she passed through it. I trail a few steps behind her as she walked, only moving forward when we reach the door to my apartment. I unlock the door and let her into my little pit of lies.

I lie to her. All I do is lie to her. I tell her things like you're beautiful and I love you. I never once felt an attraction to her. I could see from the start that below the skin, she was filthy. A little whore.

And that is why I have to get rid of her. I kept her close for weeks, tricking her, deceiving her. I needed her near me so I could put my plan into action.

We step into my apartment and her hands are on me at once. She tears off my jacket and makes to unbutton my shirt. I back off a step, letting her hands slide off of me.

She is not deterred. She moves now to strip herself, shrugging off her coat. She falls back onto my bed, gesturing and cooing for me to come join her. I stare at her, only thing on my mind deep disgust, but I am careful not to show it. I take a seat next to her, and she movies in again.

Her hands work quickly, and my shirt is soon abandoned. She takes the sides of my face in her hands and moves in a little closer, breath short and heated and dusting against my face like a downy little feather. I try to hold down my bile.

She makes her movie, pressing her mouth to mine, shoving her tongue into my mouth, forcing us into an internal wrestling match. Her hands drift lower, and she unsnaps the top button of my jeans. And I really, really don't want to do this. Because I really don't like her, not when she's dressed like that, –

like the little whore she is

- skirt just a little too short and shirt just a little too tight. And here's my chance, so I make my move too.

And she recoils, hand tenderly padding at where my fist met her face, and the blood is funning from the sharp, deep cut carved into her perfect little face by my ring with the golden star on it. And she just stares, expression blank, mouth hitched open, the running blood mixing her saliva, creating a string of beads, like a spider web damp with dew.

And I can't help but think –

how lovely

- so pretty. And my hands itch for more. More blood. More beauty.

So my fist forms again and it makes contact once more. And again. Again. Again. The tears flow down her face but the blood's running harder and it's addictive. Really.

And now she's down on the floor, a broken little whore that's broken even more. And I don't want to stop because she looks so pretty with all the blood on her, so much prettier than the dirty little whore that she was without the new clothes of dark, dark blood.

And now foot connects with face, and I can hear the bones crack and her choked responses, choked screams –

choked by blood, breathing it in, filling her lungs

- quiet down. But the blood keeps flowing so I don't care and I want more. I want to destroy, to mutilate, and make her beautiful.

so, so beautiful like an angel now

"I'll be right back," I whisper in her ear, before quietly creeping away to the cold barren floor of the kitchen. I vaguely recognize that my feet are chilled, and I wish I had my socks. I pull open one of the drawers and watch the knives glinting below –

shining just like her

- and I tenderly pick one up – the largest. And it feels right.

so, so right like it belongs in my hand

And back to her now. I pad back to her side, crouching beside her. I rearrange the body, so she lays spread out, arms to the side, just like Jesus but much prettier. And religion's not really my thing, but it seems to fit very well and I can't place why.

so, so perfectly

And I set to work, sliding the knife into her skin, cutting just like butter. And I spell out a secret, writing her a final message, a new tattoo for her snow white skin.

i love you, i love you, i love you

"I HATE YOU." I'm scratching it into her skin, writing her a memorial of my –

love, love, love

- feelings that never were, the words written out in a childish chicken scratch hand writing. And the knife in my hand is moving on its own now, the destructive, beautiful movements not even registering in my mind. Her arms are scratched up, and her blood pools below, a dark red background that I work on.

I move on to her stomach, her shirt now hitched up, and even in death and devastation she's looking so nice.

so sexy like a little whore

And I dig the knife in, letting her organs spill out, twisting among each other, painting a butterfly picture, all knots and blood. And I stare, and I feel like I have created a masterpiece. Like I am a master artist.

michelangelo da vinci picasso

And I stand there, watching her. Pride swells within me, and I smile. I've done a good deed. I stand and watch, and admire my work.

so proud i'll hang it on the fridge. look mommy, i've got a gold star