So pretty.
She was so pretty.
He tilted his head to the side, his contented smile placed on his lips. She was so pretty, he thought. So pretty when she was sitting. Walking. Eating. Sleeping. Showering. Playing. Reading. Talking.
He loved how pretty she was and he told her, but she never took him seriously. She would just laugh that pretty laugh and smile that pretty smile. That pretty smile he wanted. That pretty laugh he wanted to hear in a high pitched scream.
His violet eyes followed her movements. The fog of her breath puffing out in the cold as she huddled into herself. Her feet shuffling through the snow. His own feet striding silently forward.
So pretty.
I love her. That's what he told himself at first, but love turned into want, into possession. The it was; I want her, I need her, I will have her.
Her suitors disappeared, the last thing that left their mouths were not marriage proposals that angered him so much, no the last things were screams. Screams and moans. Moans of pain mixing with screams of terror.
And she loves me too. He could almost hear her say it, his mind playing out countless of scenarios. She wants me to want her, to need her, to own her.
That's what she wants, his mind would whisper in the silence. Own her. Go. Take her.
And so he did.
His leather clad hand clamping on her shoulder. There was so much bliss he lost himself. He lost himself in the gripping, ripping, growling, scratching.
And then she started screaming.
Her screams rang in his ears and he smiled. Her screams were even more beautiful than he could have imagined. And she felt so good in his grip, she was his just like they had both wanted.
And when he wrapped her around him, he almost lost it, almost.
He loved her in red. Her red dresses, shirts, her red flowers in her hair. But in his opinion you looked loveliest when you were painted in the red of your own body. The red that poured from your veins across you. It fell onto his being. Pooled in stark contrast with the white snow.
Grin stretched wide over his lips. Her blood smearing on his cheek as she raised her hand against him feeble attempts to fight. So feeble he laughed. He enjoyed how much you liked to play.
Wheezing, breath slowing she whispered through red painted lips, "Why, Ivan?"
And with a smile he answered as the light faded from her eyes. "Because I love you, I love you."
And he did.
He had loved you so much.