A droplet worked its way from the corner of her left eye, streaking red in its wake as it inched over the bridge of her nose and down her cheek. It clung precariously to her chin for a long moment and finally dropped off. He watched it for as long as he dared, reveling in his artistry. The silence hung thick, impenetrable, and the world was yet unmoved by what he'd left. Night had yet to break its long slumber, but it was disturbed nonetheless. His precious girl, his love, was a gift left for those who had known her.
They would appreciate him.
Drip.
White lace was beginning to soak red.
Stillness.
They would love him.
Drip.
A door creaked open, a coffee cup shattered, and someone began to scream.
He was gone a second later, a soft, fond tug of a grin lingering across his face. No one could find him. No one could see him. The screaming came with him and he drank it in eagerly, starved for the attention it gave him. He was satisfied, though. Happy. His first masterpiece had come to its showcase-they would see how good it really was in time. How perfect it was. How wonderfully divine he had made her in his brilliance. They would see.
He'd left her for them.
For his adoring fans.
She was wrapped in ribbon and lace, utter perfection.
For them.