The Victim's Psychopath
She held the umbrella higher since he towered over her. Her burgundy, bright fedora clashed with his floppy, navy hood. Her long hair flowing in waves beneath her shoulder while his neat and short. She maintained faux confident eye-contact with him, her cherry lips smiling slightly; a smile to hide a horrifying revelation. He gazed at her intently with those indecipherable chocolate eyes, that blank expression which carried an unsaid meaning frozen on his unmoving lips. The rain gushed from the heavens causing people to run for cover in building and cars, until the pair were the only fools stood on the streets in the wet evening, alone.
Anxiety crept in her mind; did he finally find out? Did he know that she was the witness? The person who saw him murder the man in cold-blood? The person who he chased angrily in the night, only to miraculously escape his clutches? She was the one flaw in his otherwise flawless plan. A shiver ran down her spine as she remembered his face that moment; the twisted smile in the murky darkness, the ruby blood dripping from the blade. But she couldn't report it. She knew that he committed a crime; someone who deserved to be put being bars, to rot in prison for the rest of
his life. Yet, she felt sorry for him. Inexplicable sympathy. A repulsive compassion.
It disgusted her.
As the silence grew heavier, the rain falling harder, her trepidation increased too. His stare was downright unnerving, like he was reading her mind through the windows of her eyes. She cleared her throat, hoping it would evoke some kind of reaction. It didn't. She raised an eyebrow in confusion. No response, like he was more concerned about solving an invisible puzzle on her face.
"I'm going home now," she said, rubbing her arm to show the weather was inconvenient. He obviously didn't bother acknowledging her subtle hints. "I'll see you later."
But she didn't even get the opportunity to move. His arms locked around her waist firmly, eliciting a shocked gasp from her. Surprised eyes looked up to his calculating face, which inched forward dangerously. The safe gap was almost non-existent, and she loathed the way her heartbeat suddenly raced, and how her breath became shallow. She loathed that she was actually enjoying being surrounded by the same body that murdered an innocent human being. She loathed that she didn't try to move away and attempt to look away from the face of a ruthless killer.
And most of all, she loathed herself for lifting herself on her tiptoes, wrapping her arm around his neck and instigating the forbidden kiss he teased. The umbrella suddenly was irrelevant, falling on the ground as the rain now beat the embracing couple with cold droplets of water. She was cold, numb and lost in the rush of feverent emotions.
It would only be mere months later she'd find out she was in love with a previously convicted criminal, a clinically diagnosed psychopath and a hired assassin. Her heart was snatched, manipulated and disillusioned by his boyish charms, protectiveness and caring gestures. It was left shattered into pieces she didn't know how to fix together properly.
"I don't feel sorry," he says quietly, looking down as a glass barrier separated them. Prison uniform didn't suit him, she decided absent-mindedly, but ironically they were the most fitting outfit for him. "But I know you deserve one."
A friendship forged by selfishness and romance distorted by deception; the apology was a rough translation of "you were gullible." Did his actions ever contain an inkling of sincerity? She didn't have the tears and energy to care about any more.