I silently sip a steaming cup of pure black coffee, tainting its pleasant brew with the blood that slipped from the top of my cup to the black liquid. Its discoloration swirled on the top of the caffeinated substance, as it should. After all, blood is thicker then water.
The pale moonlight shined through the skylight exposing all sorrows and sins that I have adorned on this night of All Hallows Eve. The blood of doctors and nurses spilled across the floors, staining white walls and floors with its immortal crimson hue. I stare, appeasing at my work, starting at the farthest end of the room and gaze closer and closer and closer to me, until my hungry eyes feast upon the sight of my shiny bloodied scalpel, resting in the grooves of my middle and ring finger.
Suddenly there was a subtle break of the silence. The door closing, and the sound of familiar chunky, black, platform Mary Janes making me smirk as the sound of running nears. I watch her, as she runs so fast past the door if I had blinked I would have missed it. I hear a scream as she backs up, and stares in astonishment before laying her eyes on me. I all of her in, dark blue skinny jeans slightly covering the tops of her Mary's with no socks, a black studded belt angling downwards across her small vegetarian and lots of cardio waist, covered with a white tank top and a black sleeveless shall. A brown cross danced just above her cleavage and long auburn curls frame her pale, blue-eyed face and curls back gripping on a black baggy knit beanie hat.
"Coffee?" I ask.
"What the hell have you done?" she screeched in a parched cracked voice, obviously on the brink of tears.
I chuckled, "Don't you mean what have we done?"
She clamped her mouth clenctching her jaw as she stared at me; her destened lover.
"Your fucking insane!" She cried, "They need to lock you up and throw away the key! Send you a million miles away, so far away from me that I never have to worry about you comming back! Have you guarded with hundreds of doors and millions of police men!"
Her eyes burned with delicious hate, she was screaming at me with her soul, and setting me on fire with her mind; yet I remain standing.
"I Fucking Hate you." She cried, tears disrupting her mascara and making holes in her foundation, closing her eyes and then falling to the bloodied floor. The sight made me weak with the beauty. I wanted nothing more then to unwrap her of her clothes and carve strawberry gashes into her marble skin. To make her scream as I slowly rip out her organs one by one. To have her life drained out of her and drink her crimson wine in, as our life force becomes one. I licked my lips at very whim that I shall be the very last thing those fiery blue eyes see, and that her screams of pleasure, hate, and death will one day be all mine
I walked over to her and cupped my hands around her soaking and flawed face, forcing her face up to mine and crushing her lip so hard I could taste the sweet metallic as she bled. I embraced her in my arms and pressed her against my chest, and crushed her until I heard the bones cracking. The soft sound of her cries were my lullaby in this house of white torment. I fell asleep in the westward asylum staff room, with her locked in the cage of my love and loneliness. She was my prisoner in my disgusting fascination, and my prisoner in morbid adoration, and my whore in the dance of my bloody lust; and yet still virgin to my desires.
It wasn't always this way, in fact I fondly remember a time when Joana Parkidson and I Matthew Mokinbush were nothing more then victims to a simplistic crush and unpredictable unfortunes.
This is our story.