Abigail's gentle eyes grew dark and fierce as she approached the blue-faced victim. A twisted fascination overcame her as she peered into the veiny eyes, the gaping mouth like a gasping fish. I had strangled this man in my office, and she watched from the far corner. She surveyed his blotched neck, his vascular hands, and the starved, blank expression in his lifeless face.

"Are we taking him home now?"

"Yes."

She continued to search over him with heightened curiosity. "Alright." She mumbled finally, rising from her squatted position and nodding solemnly at me.

We put him in a bag and carefully tied him up like a gift, placing him in the trunk and driving home without a word exchanged.

"I want to gut him." She expressed once we had arrived home.

"Alright, you can do that. I will help you."

"No, I want to do it myself. I've done it before with deer. You had the privilege to kill him."

"I wouldn't consider it much of a privilege rather than a duty. He was impeccably rude."

"I saw."

I handed her the knife. "At the sternum."

"Yes, Dad, I know."

Dad. My heart quivered behind its rotting cage in longing. Dad a single syllable so powerful as to shake me to my abject core. I watched her with anticipation as she pressed the blade into his bare chest, through the skin. "Very good, Abigail." I muttered, my mouth already salivating.

She continued to cut through his body with the precision of a surgeon. I beamed with pride, mostly, but a part of me regretting exposing her to these sights and mangling whatever was left of her innocent youth. At least she is mine.

I rested a palm on her shoulder as she tore away and carefully plucked each organ like ripe fruit, setting them aside for my inspection.

"Beautiful." The gore stained her delicate hands, covering the fingers of her gloves in bright red like expensive nail polish. She licked her lips as she dug deeper, as she broke his ribs, as she pulled his veins apart.

"What will we make with him?"

"I will see what recipes I have."

"You don't use every part like my father did, do you?"

"I find no need to. I am no hunter."

"I know, I know. Still, I feel a little guilty. It's just murder now, isn't it?"

"Not at all. Don't trouble yourself with guilt for wasting his parts. He was worthless." This was not enough to convince her, so I tried again. "Besides, you're quite an ethical butcher."

I managed to pull a smile from her, but still melancholy graced her eyes, tugging at her brows.

"I think that is enough for now, Abby." I gently squeezed her shoulder and she put down the dripping knife. "I will take over the rest."

What a relief to see her want to burrow that pretty little head under my wing, but how could I destroy her innocence even further than I already have? What would she benefit, honestly, from becoming a beast like me?

After dinner, Abigail had fell asleep while reading on the couch (from a full stomach, no doubt). I left her there, careful not to disturb her as I cleaned up.

The moon reared her glistening face, bleak and bland compared to my Abigail. She rested with limbs stretched across the couch, delicately posed as though for a painting. I stood there for some time admiring the work of art presented before me, the moonlight streamlined across her figure, the tide of her breathing leaving me in awe of her trance-like beauty. I had to capture this intimate moment, I decided, and sat in front of her with a sketchpad and scalpel-sharpened pencil.

Fortunately, she stayed asleep throughout this process. I managed to draw several portraits of her, including close-ups of her lunar face. But each one, despite my skills, could not accurately capture her essence. No, not a single form of etched lines and carefully maneuvered pen points could ever do her justice.

And just as the thought slithered away, she awoke with pale, drifting eyes that met mine tenderly. My pencil began to quiver slightly within my grasp.

"Hello, Abigail." I whispered.

"What time is it?" she responded weakly, covering her yawning mouth with a slender hand.

"2 am. You fell asleep on the couch."

"Oh...Right." she began to raise up, resting on an elbow. Then her gaze grew quizzical. "Why are you up?"

I quickly conjured a lie. "I couldn't sleep. I thought I should stay with you. Maybe watching you rest so deeply would make me tired."

She cracked a small grin and ran her fingers through her pillow-tangled hair.

Abby then eyed the pencil in my hand. "What's that?"

"I was sketching."

"Can I see?"

I held up the drawings toward her. She reached out to take the book from me and her index finger brushed momentarily against mine.

My heart could not stay still.

"These are me..." she muttered to herself. "Do I really look like that when I sleep?" she smiled.

"Much more stunning."