Weeks passed, I hadn't heard from her since that day. She hadn't been seen at all, and by what I could tell Carla hadn't heard from her either. No sightings, no crime fighting, nothing, I had taken her out of commission for one reason or another. I knew I should be happy, but instead I felt terrible knowing that I couldn't see her.

And its not like I didn't try to contact her. I must have sent her twenty MySpace messages, none warranted replies. I even began beating up old women, and little kids, hoping their screams would make her come to me. I even called her at her cellphone number,

"Not around leave me a message..." he automated voice cooed.

I hung up every time, what was the point, if she didn't want to talk to me, she didn't want to listen to my messages. I began to give up on her, she told me once that she doubted that I would recognize her, but the truth is she hoped I never would, because of...this. This entire situation.

My anger grew inside of me, I had lost her, lost everyone, I became substantially more and more violent. My days were consumed with plots, trying to fill the unattainable void, maybe if I killed enough people, kick ass would finally get a hold of me and kill me, and this misery would be over soon.

But one day I was at the market, I saw a glimpse of golden hair, and then it was gone. She was right there, and then she wasn't. That vision tormented me for days. It was almost unreal, it probably wasn't even her, and if the idea of her wasn't even real, well neither was anything else. I was stricken to my study, looking at the large piece that she had painted for me before I knew who she was, that hollow face, he looked so terrified, and so angry, it was like looking into a mirror.

But I cant say that I didn't miss her. That one night was all we ever had. I looked at the blood soaked piece of paper, she had drawn a sketch of the piece I commissioned. The woman's face, so caring and kind, but her eyes were angry, and ravenous, like when she looked at you, she consumed your energy. I pinned the sketch up on the wall next to the painting. I cried as I looked at us together. Two mismatched pieces of opposite words that fit together, but by a factory error, there was always some wiggle room.

That wiggle room between us had been these past few weeks. The silence of time ate away at me, and I was plagued with nervous breakdowns and unpredictable outbursts of anger. I felt like a monster, trapped in a poorly written story about two cliche lovers as if inspired by Shakespeare himself.

Every time I ventured from my fortress of dismay was when I was out pillaging. I took everything I felt onto the worthless scum of this city. One night Dextrose joined me, against my better judgment I suppose.

"I don't get why you've been so sad lately, your acting like a fucking pussy, maybe you need to get that hit girl over here to kick your ass back into shape." she laughed in that slimy tone.

I broke, "What the fuck did you say bitch?" I said, my voice heated.

"Shit I was just kidding." she spoke to me like I was nothing, like I was just some pussy ass kid.

"You shut your fucking mouth right now, or I swear to god, I will make it so that they will never find you." I growled at her.

"Bull-shit." she hissed.

I lunged at her, my fists balled I punched her in the face over and over. She screamed at me to stop but this felt good, the feeling of warm blood....remember? I massacred her, left her with three broken ribs, and a fucked up face.

I walked home by myself. I had lost all want to live my life anymore, why should I stay here? Why do this? Everything reminded me of her, I felt like ending it all, but when I got home, I began to feel that pit of nothingness turn into that uneasy, strange anxious feeling that it had been when I had first kissed her.

I put off my suicide plans for just another day or so, hoping that maybe like it had before, this feeling would show its meaning to me. But you never really know.