He swore it was just curiosity that drove him. He was just interested and a little bit fascinated. He had found a smell everyone liked, a persona loved by all. Someone who wanted the best for everybody, someone who stood above others but acted as an equal. He had witnessed a touch so soft in caressing books, a hand so firm in war. A mind tainted by cruelty, who only searched for good. He had discovered such an interesting soul that he couldn't let his mind rest, not until everything was lain open for him to see and hold and love, because nothing was ever this good.
But he didn't realize that curiosity was really driving him. It took the wheel in his mind disconnected the breaks so he was hurtling down a steep hillside with no seat-belt struggling against his chest. It was a 180 mile per hour drop with the widows open, and the radio blaring sounds from another planet. It was the black sky streaked with white and sweaty palms on the steering wheel and the smell of burning rubber as the tires skidded down the hill.
And then it was a shattered windshield and a forehead against the center of the wheel. It was the crushed front of a car hood and legs cramped against metal. It was the pain and destructing of absent airbags, a malfunction in the system, and the stench of sweet blood. It was the silence of the still, starry sky and the quiet chirping of night animals in the distance and a broken radio. It was curiosity crashing to a halt.
It was curiosity realizing that there was no white hair amongst the bodies of ghouls in the sewers; no gray eyes in the streets littered with ashes. It was the recognition that there would be no more fascination of a cruel and gentle mind, no more beautiful handling of books and no more wonderful games of fighting enemies, side-by-side. It was his curiosity leaving him. His interest of the world dissipating. The fascination of life vanishing.
This was his love leaving him.