He could be the biggest bastard in the world inside of his head and they would never know. He was a master in the art of lies and manipulation and when he smiled they didn't see the factures that lined it. Perhaps if they had they would have seen the monster that lay quietly beneath the surface, feeding off blood and sin and the love that grew like a cancer inside of him. At one time he thought himself to be crazy, now he finds the world to be crazy. No, he's not crazy, he has a mission and he'd do whatever it took to accomplish it. No laugher, no love, no smile, no plea would deter him and through the storm that was to come he would stand steadfast, her face ever dancing across his mind's eye.
It would be her face that he would picture each time he wrapped himself up in Trish, flesh to flesh and bodies aligned in the most primal of dances; her voice he would hear in place of his fiancé's as he thrust himself into her and felt her around him, wet and warm and when he came it would be her name that he would have to force not to pass his lips, substituting it with Trish's like he substituted her for everything. And when the green-eyed woman would fall asleep beside him he'd think of how easy it would be to take her life. And he would dream of doing so, smothering her with a pillow or snapping her neck in one smooth, quick jerk; to cup her face in his palms as though he were about to press a kiss to her mouth and then turn sharply, snapping her head to the side and hearing the satisfying snap of her bones breaking and the spinal cord snapping and how the light would leave her eyes and when he let her go she'd fall to the floor in a heap of lifeless limbs and sightless eyes and he almost gets hard at the idea of disposing of her like that; it's a battle not to end it too soon, not to drive a knife through her ribcage and piercing that heart that was beating steadily for him so he could feel her blood rush over his hand, warm and thick and intoxicating. But he had to play the part.
It was his greatest performance and he thinks, rather nastily, that he deserved a fucking medal for being able to fake wanting her every time he fucked her when his sister's face would be the one he'd picture panting along with him.
Maybe if she did she'd know enough to run.
