She thought that he would never be one for a dance. He wasn't much for a song, that she knew, but she wasn't complaining about his vocals. There was something about a boy willing to move his hips that drove her crazy. Something about such an act of passion. That's where his need to wreck everything he touches comes from, she thinks, catching his eye from the kitchen. Misattributed passion. She consciously chose not to romanticize his inner vandal, rather she decided to nurture the fire inside him in a more constructive method, and to her surprise he really took to the art of dance. But delinquents are more than just the crimes they commit, or so she thought. A knowing smile creeps across his face and he feverishly draws his hand away from his pocket, flipping the switch on the stereo as he passes by.

In four rhythmic strides he grabs her right hand fiercely in his left and gives a pull, trapping her close to him in a swift motion. A blush begins to taint her pale cheeks, and she tucks a short strand of hair behind her ear and smiles sweetly. She sighs as she wonders what style he would choose. Sucking in her breath she closes her eyes and listens to his gentle yet urgent directions. With her exhale, he guides her three steps leaned left, three steps leaned right, and a twist to the open space of their living room. Thinking that this was any ordinary dance was a mistake on her part. Often he gave her a few steps to acclimate to the genre, but today he has other plans. Pulling her taut once again, he intends to throw her off her game, because he still has a little bit of devil inside of him, and he likes to watch her as she struggles to keep up. She's never cuter than when she's frazzled.

But she was ready. They lock eyes again and simultaneously grin—he because he stands ready to stump her, but she because she feels she can read him like a book. With one last measure, he begins. Twirling her by her right hand and grabbing her right hip when she faces the same direction as he does, forcing her to lean back on one foot. Trusting him, she allows him to lean her to the floor. Like a gust of wind she is pivoted in another direction and she completely allows herself to become his puppet. His art is his beauty, just like she is.

He is careful to keep her away from his right pocket; that's where the danger is. With every light and airy foot that hits the floor his left side is always to her. She assumes it's a stylistic dance choice; in contemporary, anything can become a guideline if repeated enough. She thinks that she is just his accessory, so he lets her believe, for there's no option left but for her to dream her final fantasy. If this is it, so be it.

Every callused hand that is placed commandingly on her hip causes a bolt of electricity to jolt through her. The friction between them is undeniable as she feels the raw emotion of the song and pairs it delicately with change of direction. With her eyes closed she listens to the words of the song cry for a soul trapped with nowhere to go, and she can't help but feel similar about her misfit personality. In a gust, he urgently latches onto her hips and lifts her above his head. For a moment, she's flying; on top of the world, and a queen in her own head, as a halo of sunlight and dust outlines her frame. Drinking in her sultry beauty, he gingerly sets her down in front of him, one foot after the other, and twists her around, so she is facing away from him. He suddenly grabs her where her jaw meets her neck. The softest touch he could muster slowly guides her head in a large, overdrawn circle. She follows his touch so quickly, so easily. A connection like that was enough to drag a man into madness.

And it did.

The song drew to a close, and with an exhale he holds her by the hips once again, bringing her into a lean with his left arm. It takes every muscle in his body to lower the two of them to the floor gracefully as she, as instructed, put all her weight into him. They reach the ground and he pivots her by the side of her foot so that they're facing one another. Eyes locked. His right arm is free. She exhales, and places a kiss on his lips. His right hand shakes as it feels cool silver of the knife hidden in his pocket. The kiss catches him off guard and the final chords strike: five, four, three, two. In a final, heated motion he pulls the knife from his pocket and pierces her exposed abdomen skin. One.

She does not make a sound. She only looks at him with her betrayed, doe eyes. They ask why, and in a second he's full of immediate regret, and his eyes fill with sorrow, heavy with the realization of his infatuation. A panicked cry escapes his lips, in a feeble attempt to correct a blind mistake. But it's far too late for her. It's far too late for them. Her fondest memories surface, and with a piercing pain draining her life she recalls every time he was ever sweet to her. Unfortunately, all the kindness in the world can't stitch her back together. Stifling tears, he hysterically cries out her name. He is all too aware of what he has just done. Begging for forgiveness he hugs her close, and plants a gentle kiss on her cheek. He is met with no resistance, and her teal hair is plastered to the sweat on their necks. He holds her against his chest and feels her heart drop.

Dying out with her, her last words get softer as life leaves her lungs: "I always knew your love would kill me."

Her eyes close, and through the tears he was holding back he utters "Your love made me crazy."