Ripppp.
Marluxia enjoyed the smooth, clean, cut sound of the paper being torn into two. It was like the feel of a knife slicing into a newly ripe apple, the touch of warm fingertips upon cold glass. He stood still, relishing that sound until it melted back into silence.
Rippp. Rippp. Rippppp.
Faster, louder, now. He tore the sheet of paper into longitudinal strips; until finally, shredded and useless, the remains of the drawing fluttered near his ankles like the wings of a broken butterfly. He kicked them away from his boots, grabbed the witch's notebook and tore out her drawings from the spine in sharp movements that responded to his urgency. He went along the white walls, tearing down the drawings that were tacked up upon the translucent surfaces. When he was done, he was breathing heavily, looking down at those indifferent pieces of paper, boasting of colorful worlds – worlds that were not his to claim. A growl ascended his throat, causing his teeth to grind against the insides of his cheeks, and his fingers to tremble violently until they grabbed the first thing that was within his reach.
Her sunshine hair clung to his fingertips, snagging onto the buttons of his overcoat as he pulled her closer towards him. Her body responded weakly, as if all her colors were slowly being drained out by his presence. Even her hair seemed to lack its luster, its vibrant colors. Her eyes rolled around in their sockets, always pointing downwards towards the ground suspended below her dangling feet.
And he wanted to rip her out too, like her drawings, her little world that she had worked so hard to construct behind white walls. His fingers tightened on her hair, pulling her ever so more closely towards him, so that he breathed in the sweet smell of her hair, her essence. The forgotten drawings he meant to turn into scrap piles of paper shreds, laid forgotten at their feet.
It wasn't so unfamiliar to her when he started to shed her clothes like the papery layers of an onion, and push her down to the table to give him room to do whatever he wanted to her. She knew when he was finished when a sharp stabbing pain erupted inside of her and the sound of a barely undisguised moan drifted into her pounding ears – telling her that the danger had passed, but only temporarily until his insatiable hunger returned.
And when he was done, he roughly pushed her away, having satisfied his sickly desires. She only flopped feebly onto the ground, like one of those wind-up dolls that was sold for a penny a dozen. Her clothes were scattered above her used body; and even though she was well aware of her nakedness and shame beneath her exterior, she lay motionless on the ground, even after he had left – simply because she felt at home among all her ruined drawings, her crayons having rolled all over those paper wads.
