Her
He focused his attention on brunettes for months.
It wasn't anything too noticeable. To even his most loyal Gash members he was not acting out of the ordinary. The hair colors of most souls were too drenched in blood to discern unless one cared to look. He was no less brutal than before, and perhaps even more so, tearing flesh and drawing screams from raw throats.
It wasn't enough.
When he wasn't administering his teachings, he was sharpening his tools, studying, planning. He practiced on the newer souls, where to cut first, how to best draw pain and pleasure from flesh, how to break them down and built them up. In his wake no less than two new Cenobites were born, embracing his teachings and releasing their mortal inhibitions.
It still wasn't enough. It was never enough. Practicing was no longer enough to sate him. Contemplating possibilities was unfulfilling. Even tearing brown curls from bleeding scalps, listening to screams and turning them into another's in his mind wasn't enough.
He needed her. He needed Kirsty Cotton. He needed to lure her in, to string her up and worship her flesh with his hands and blades. He needed to watch her as he administered his teachings, needed to see the confusion and fear in her eyes turn into enlightenment. He needed to hear her screams of pain and their shift into moans of ecstasy as only pain could offer. He needed to see those brown eyes gazing into his, confusion washed away with understanding.
He could sense himself in her mind. Even with a world between them, he could sense her fear, the way he haunted her, and he could grasp at forbidden thoughts lingering in the shadows of her mind.
And it did satisfy him somewhat to know, even if she denied it, that she needed him too.