Elizabeth knelt down and examined the impaled body of the squirrel by the fence. "Ivan..." she muttered under her breath. "Not again."
She pulled the stick it was on from the ground and walked over to one of the barrel fires that the nurses had lit in the play yard to ward of the winter cold. Dropping it in the flames she looked at the small spatter of blood across the back of her hand. It was fresh, still warm from Ivan's efforts to effectively torture the small creature before death.
The warmth of it felt good against her skin, which was dry and cracked from washing it so many times after touching babies or mutilated things. She rubbed the quickly thickening liquid into her hands and walked off to find Ivan. He was going to be in big trouble again if she told one of the nurses about that squirrel. He was one dead five-year-old.
"And I was going to start my garden," She said softly to herself as she walked back inside to wash her hands out of sheer habit. They really did feel better, smoother almost. She patted them dry and went to her room for a nap before supper. All of the demon-babies, as she called them, were napping to so perhaps she'd actually get some sleep tonight.
Adolf watched Elizabeth for weeks memorizing her face for the painting he was going to create for her. He'd known her since she was brought to the orphanage but now that they were both nearly adults he felt it right to show his is love for her. He was so shy though, and she really was beautiful, particularly when she cleaned up the bloody messes that Ivan would leave around on the grounds.
There was something in the way she smeared fresh blood across her hands that always struck him as strangely provocative. Did she know what she did to him when she toyed with those still living playthings Ivan had abandoned? He particularly loved the way she pitched them into the fire barrel at the far end of the yard. Something in the scent of burning flesh excited him almost more than Elizabeth did herself.
His painting had started with a tentative sketch of her face. Eighteen years old and not a blemish, she was a real beauty. Her strong Hungarian features were oddly ugly and beautiful at the same time. He'd painted her smiling, her lips almost in a thrilling snarl. As the painting grew Adolf knew that she would love it; the snarling smile, the blood on her perfect hands, the fire in the distant background. She had to love it.
It'd taken him another month but even before the paint began to dry he went to her as she warmed her blood-soaked hands—She'd resorted to killing her own prey--over the fire barrel.
"Elizabeth?" He said softly.
"Yes, Adolf?"
He swallowed hard. He knew he must look a fright, his hands caked with paint, his hair mussed atop his head. He hadn't even bothered to shave that shadow of a mustache on his lip. "I've got something I want to show you."
"Oh."
She followed him patiently into his room where the painting stood ready for her. He said nothing as she walked in after him and stopped to look at the arresting image of herself. She let out a small gasp and could not find the words for him. He knew she'd love it. He knew it.
She wrapped her arms around him from behind and pressed her full lips to his neck. "Adolf, it's so..." Her voice faded and she kissed his neck again.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against her. The feel of her arms around him was enough to make him crazy. She really loved him. He smiled. "I love you," he whispered to the painting. His bloody Elizabeth.
"Adolf," she murmured against his neck.
He could hardly breath as she sank her teeth into his skin letting his blood come out in a sluggish flow.
"I love you too," she whispered, smearing the blood across her hands.