It is only in love and in murder that we still remain sincere.
Friedrich Dürrenmatt

You meet someone.
You are fascinated.
You listen to each and every word they say. Be it undecided or not.
You exchange numbers. Pictures.
You call each other.
You try to deceive the other one with putting yourself in the best light.
You meet again.
You cross lines.

Perfect.

The world couldn't be more colourful.

But your friends don't like them. Your family neither.
But you do.
You back them.
Every word they say is true. They? They would never lie to you. The world lies. Sure as death.

Do you move in with them or do they move in with you? Doesn't matter. Table. Chairs. Plates. Everything will be thrown together. Does your favourite book get a place at your common shelf, or does it get sorted out to rot in a box in the basement? Another person takes place in your life. Forcibly.
At that moment you might ask yourself if you're ready.
And you look at that person and think: of course I am.
Because you back them.
You throw your cautions in the winds. You are flooded with love.

After some time the being together is inevitable.
You take out a loan.
You stand bail for them.
You talk about marriage.
Perhaps children.
Growing old together.

And perhaps there's that tiny little voice inside your head which asks you:
Is that me?

Or is it love that does this to me?

Malfoy Summer Mansion
Saturday, 13th September
08:03 p.m.
11 days until the next murder

When Tom helped Hermione out of his car she felt taken back to America's Roaring Twenties.

The Manor was softly illuminated, pillars and stairs sculptured out of white natural stone dipped in a warm yellow glow. A thick burgundy carpet was rolled out from driveway to threshold and swallowed every step of her high heels. The air was rich with the scent of fresh water and hundreds upon hundreds of lilies that were draped along the handrail and windowsills.

One could not have found a better scene for such an exhibition.

Gatsby himself couldn't compare. The Malfoy summer mansion was everything and more.

A butler stood stoically at the entrance and checked the invitations of each guest with a grim face and a flick of his eyes. His back was slightly bent and his nose looked as if it had been broken a couple of times without ever having healed correctly. When it was their turn he didn't even ask for an invitation. Instead, a smile softened the hard lines around his eyes.

"Young Mister Riddle, it's nice to see you. Master Malfoy awaits you and your company."

"Good evening, Dobby, I will go and find him then." Tom returned the smile and lead the way into the house.

Gems and gold were flashing in the light of an enormous diamond chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Fiddles and violins played from somewhere in the house. The hall was filled with people, probably a hundred guests, if not more, who spread in a sea of haute couture and evening dresses. Here and there an artwork hung on the wall and installations were built in the middle of the room. People gathered in groups and some were already hogging the bar that was temporarily built near the giant glass-doors leading to the garden. Waiters in perfectly tailored tailcoats served rose-coloured champagne and little chocolate truffles filled with raspberry-mousse.

Hermione's fascinated gaze darted through the room.

The mansion was filled with famous guests as far as her eyes could see. Faces she only knew from the news; delegates, judges, lawyers - haute monde from all over the world. Some had arrived from surrounding European countries, some from overseas. One designer gown after another was on display, their colours ranging from peach pink to midnight blue.

Hermione, clad in a 50-pound dress off the rack, felt out of place and slightly embarrassed. Tom took her hand. It was warm and a pleasant reassurance that calmed her instantly.

"Bonjour - ah, Miss Granger, what a pleasure." Abraxas strode through the room and leaned close to her to place kisses to either side of her cheek. His grin was radiant and shamed the sun. He didn't greet Tom at all but rather treated him amicably like a family member. Like a brother.

A waiter arrived at his side with three glasses of bubbling champagne on a silver platter. Abraxas pushed two of them into their empty hands and took the third for himself.

"I'm glad you could make it."

"The pleasure is all mine," Hermione said. She took a sip of the sparkling liquid in her glass. It tasted ripe and expensive. "You have a nice mansion, Mister Malfoy."

"Please, call me Abraxas. Mister Malfoy makes it sound as though I'm in my forties, or worse, my father. Both are nothing to look forward to." His charm was as sharp as an arrow and was aimed to strike true. "Thank you for the compliment. The Mansion has actually been in our possession for over two hundred years. We use it as a summer vacation haven only - mother loves to decorate the garden outside. This year Tuscany is in great demand." His grey eyes betrayed nothing. It was like looking into an empty mirror.

Piercing eyes. Keen wit and charm, superfluous pretending to be someone he's not on the surface. No emotions displayed. Doesn't show his intentions. No bricks to build upon. Hates his father - or is that just youthful rebellion? It is well known that the Malfoy sons have their grievances with the responsibilities that come with their heritage.

"Abraxas it is," she says smiling, and added a beat later, "but then I have to insist on you calling me Hermione."

A clear, sharp-edged laugh left Abraxas' lips. Then he hooked Hermione's arm under his own without any protest and led the way through the masses of people. Tom followed, but was strangely quiet during the process. She threw a glance over her shoulder at him. His face was unreadable and his eyes were fixed on Abraxas' hand on hers before he looked up to her face. He broke the stare and put his drink on one of the counters that were spread throughout the room without even having nipped at it.

For the greater part of the next half hour, Hermione was dragged from one artwork to the next, canvas after canvas, some collages of shades of black side by side and strange constellations of hues of blue and dark tones that ripped through the surfaces. Half hidden faces on white paper seemed to stare at her and contemporary art queued one after another. They passed a row of delicate little pieces in watercolours that pictured different parts of the face- Everything looked bizarre and abstract. She overheard a couple of upperclassmen fawning over the brilliance of a white canvas that read 'I can't explain and I won't even try' - she felt at an utter loss to find any meaning at all.

"Some people go to art college and all they get is an attitude," Tom murmured on her side when they've reached a particular canvas that was basically painted in waves of Prussian blue and dips of white. She laughed softly.

Just then the doors swung open behind them and Hermione turned around to see a young man strolling in. He looked unlike any other guest since he wore a sports jacket and skinny jeans, ripped at the knees. She doubted that it was due to frequent use but rather to mime an aesthetic. The man was about the same age as Tom and Abraxas and had a perfectly angular face with cutting cheekbones. His black hair shone in all the colours of a raven's wing as it was illuminated by the diamonds of the chandelier.

"Regulus," Tom greeted him first, eyebrows raised. They shook hands and Tom introduced Hermione as his date with a firm hand at the small of her back. She tasted the word date on her tongue and felt unbelievably ecstatic.

When it was her turn she noticed how long and slender Regulus' fingers were. Dry clumps of acrylic were still sticking under his nail beds and his skin was a bright shade of red in some places as if someone had put yellow highlighter on it. There's something confusingly enthralling about his eyes, which were a striking shade of blue.

He's one of the artists.

"I didn't know you would be able to make it. Why didn't you say anything?" Abraxas searched for one of the waiters but Regulus stopped him with a wave of his hand, showing 'no alcohol please'. He shrugged nonchalantly.

"I thought it couldn't hurt." His voice was low and raspy from smoking. Something about him looked very familiar but Hermione couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was.

Former alcoholic. Just back from rehab. Little cuts around his fingers which could be from his art instruments - or medical ones. Introverted. He pushes his shoulders in, instead of out. Lips are bitten raw. Scratches around his neck and knuckles - probably a habit when he's nervous.

"We were just on our way to your piece. Care to join us?"

Regulus looked uncomfortable for a moment. He dwelled on his response a tad too long to shrug it off. In the end, he gave in and followed Abraxas who, once again, led the way. Tom seized the moment and took Hermione's warm hand into his own. His thumb rubbed circles into her skin.

Abraxas led them into a small nook that was elegantly arranged. Two white spotlights were drawn to the centre of a large canvas that dominated the wall.

It was red.

Red as ripe pomegranate seeds.

Red as Baccara roses.

Red as blood.

Human blood.

On closer inspection, one could see the white ends where the thick layer of colour dripped down like a liquid. It looked like blood that seeped out between fingers. Spatters right out of a crime scene gave the artwork more depth. The fitting title read Divine Violence.

"Disturbing, isn't it?" Abraxas' grin was razor sharp. His eyes were spellbound on Hermione's face. As though he was testing her. Waiting for a certain kind of reaction.

"Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable," Tom said, and took the liberty to add arrogantly, "Cesar Cruz, author of Nortenos/Surenos."

Hermione nodded slowly but couldn't keep her eyes off the canvas. Something ached inside of her. When she spoke she didn't even turn around.

"Why?"

Someone once told her the right question for an artist was never what they wanted to express. Art, much like pain and pleasure, demanded to be felt. The why was important. Why this medium. Why this colour. Why.

"I bared my heart and it meant nothing to him," Regulus said at her side, his voice carefully tread with an icy undertone. His eyes never left the canvas, almost as if he was forcing himself to not let his gaze waver. Hermione turned her head around until she could see his profile clearly against the spotlights.

Clenched fists and teeth, rigid composure, a slight shake from aggression that sits between his shoulders. Bare emotions on his face, but he tries so hard to keep his expression hard. Considering he's talking about a he it either means he's either gay or bisexual, biromantic at very least. Which means-

"He hurt you." It was something between a question and a remark.

"Not exactly." Regulus swallowed. His gaze became unfocused. Hermione could see the strained muscles in his neck. He rolled his shoulders, then cracked his knuckles.

"I just-" he stopped mid-sentence and threw a quick glance over Hermione's shoulder before he turned around again, eyes fixed on the canvas, "I don't want to talk about it."

He's nervous. Something itches under his skin but he forces himself to conceal it.

She wanted to reach out to Regulus but dropped it. It was not her place to dig things up today. So she settled on a smile that she hoped did look encouraging.

Tom observed them silently. When he stepped closer to Hermione, Regulus turned away seamlessly. Hermione didn't even notice; Tom dominated the space around him.

After a while, Abraxas turned to the next artwork, but Hermione stood still. Something about the piece held her captive. It was mesmerizing.

"What do you see?" Tom asked.

She tried to put her feelings into words, but she couldn't. In a world full of descriptions everything was blank. For the first time ever, she was at a loss for words.

"It's not about seeing. It's about feeling."

When it comes to art it's important to show everything as it truly is. Naked. Flawed. Painful. Mad.

"Well, what do you feel?" His breath was warm on her cheek.

"Too much," she said. She could feel her pulse like a steady drum on her neck when he leaned into her.

Tom hummed in agreement. His fingers splayed at her waist.

It didn't last long before the next one came and engaged Tom in conversation, and while he always introduced Hermione as his date, she was happy enough to observe the guests and take mental notes.

Regulus had been the first one who had piqued her interest. While a lot of people were gathering in the Malfoy Mansion, just a few fit the profile she had in mind. She hadn't even known how many politicians and lawyers Britain had to offer, but as soon as Tom had introduced her to one of them the next one came around the corner. She could feel that Voldemort was around. Like a bad omen.

After a while, her mind slipped away.

"Excuse me for a moment," Tom said suddenly from her side and pressed a kiss to her cheek. He joined another man across the room and shook hands with him before they fell into a soft conversation.

"He has always been much loved by everyone." Abraxas closed in on her and exchanged her empty glass with a new one. The champagne fizzed greedily.

"How long have you known each other? If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't mind at all. Honestly, I'm glad he finally found someone he seems to like. Besides, he has had to deal with so many girlfriends of mine that I'm all about exacting revenge." When he laughed the sound was still sharp and edgy. It sent shivers down her spine. Something dangerous tinged his voice.

"We met in primary school. Went to Eton together. Then to college. We both studied medicine. My parents love him. Always have. I think sometimes they wished he was their own flesh and blood." They both watched Tom from afar and how he easily slipped from one conversation into another. "Tom is a good sort. People simply love him - and he's always eager to help people out."

When Tom looked over his shoulder at Hermione their eyes locked. Next to her Abraxas snorted almost nastily.

"You look good together. Don't forget to make me godfather of your firstborn."

"It's not-" Hermione spluttered and ripped her eyes off of Tom. Her cheeks were bright red and she could feel her pulse quicken.

Abraxas laughed out loud. This time the sound was not dangerous at all, but carefree. Something about him made her shift uncomfortably.

He's wielding his words like weapons and shifts between masks. He doesn't want someone to know his real face. I wonder if Tom knows.

"Sure it is. But I get it. Some people are meant to be but even if everyone else does see it, they don't." He put his now empty glass on one of the platters when a waiter passed them. "Make sure you don't miss the opportunity, Hermione. You both deserve it."

He gave her a long look that unsettled her bones. Luckily, Draco chose that moment to show up behind her.

"Rosier is looking for you." Draco nodded to the general direction where a small group of people stood in a circle. Abraxas gazed over. Something changed in his posture when he looked back at Draco. The tension between the brothers was almost palpable. Abraxas' face closed off and he suddenly wore his bones ready for war. "I should take my leave then."

He turned around to join the circle at the far end of the room. He threw himself into the next conversation with a tall man who spread his smile widely, teeth glinting like knifepoints.

Strange. He's burying something behind his behaviour. What is he hiding?

Only when his brother was out of earshot Draco finally turned to her. A smug grin tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Hey."

"Hey," she didn't want to admit it but she was glad to see him. Tom was still deep in conversation but was alert enough to look back to her. She gave him a quick sign.

Draco led her out into the garden.

Much like the rest of Malfoy Manor, the garden was illuminated by numerous lights and seemed to shine softly under the starless sky. There was a pool. Its azure blue water reminded Hermione of the Tuscan bungalow she had spent a holiday with her parents. Some people were smoking in a corner. The music died as the glass doors slid closed and blessed silence enveloped the garden. Only the steady flow of the water against the white stone tiles could be heard.

"Abraxas can be quite intrusive." Draco leaned against one of the pillars and tilted his head just enough to look at her.

"I wouldn't call it intrusive."

"Pushy? Bothersome? Obtrusive?"

"Energetic," she finished with a grin and watched him roll his eyes affectionately. The way he wore his suit was different from his brother and Tom. More like armour. Like a mask he had to maintain. Another piece of information to add to the mystery that was Draco Malfoy.

They stood in comfortable silence for a while until the fresh air had cleared her mind again.

"So. Riddle." Draco said and it was more of a spat than a remark, but before she could object he had already continued. "Are you here because of him or because of Lestrange?"

"Lestrange is here?"

"Of course she is," he turned slightly around, just enough for Hermione to follow his line of sight. Sure enough, just mere meters away stood Bellatrix Lestrange with a glass of sparkling champagne in her hand.

"She can't see us," Draco murmured and tugged Hermione a step closer until she was almost flat against his chest. They were hidden by the pillar and two enormous palm trees that his mother had placed there last summer, while Lestrange was on the other side of the glass windows talking to Abraxas and the one Draco had called Rosier. Another man was at Bellatrix' side and she had looped her hand around his arm. Gold Hermès bracelets with diamonds were dangling from her wrist. She was clad in a form-fitting little black dress and the soles of her heels were as devilish red as her Coco Chanel lips.

Her posture screams murder.

Hermione watched Bellatrix for a while, oblivious to the fact that Draco observed her instead.

Could she really be Voldemort? I doubt it.

"Who is the man?"

"Rodolphus, her husband. He's the crown prosecutor."

Hermione had heard of him. A sly man in his early thirties. There were rumours about blood money and shady business deals, but no proof. Someone from old money with a clean slate. Someone you shouldn't mess with.

He fits the profile. I need more information about him.

"How does Abraxas know them?" She watched his brother, sharp and elegantly, twist story after story until Tom and his conversation partner joined them, too. Dread filled her gut.

"They're friends. Abraxas has always had a lot of people come over. Most of them have taken the same classes. Run in the same circles. You know. One knows the other, who knows another one - they went in and out at home." Draco shrugged it off, but Hermione could see something flicker behind his eyes.

Disappointment?

When the group split up she turned around and took a tentative step back. Draco shifted until he leaned against the pillar again. The group of smoking people had left, too, leaving them alone out in the dark. The water still shone brilliantly azure behind them.

"Have you seen the red canvas?" she said after a while just to say anything at all. She didn't mind the silence between them, but she was genuinely interested in his opinion.

"You mean Divine Violence? It's a special kind of artwork, isn't it."

"Yes, it is. I wonder who hurt him so much."

"He didn't tell? That's strange. Usually, he's pretty eager to tell anyone who listens long enough." He gave a small, strangled laugh. "It's about the case. He claims he saw Voldemort one night."

"What?" Her heart stuttered hard enough to make her flinch.

Draco rolled his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh.

"Don't look at me like that. You can't seriously think he saw Voldemort, 'Mione. Just look at him. I talked to him twice. I don't think we should take his story for granted. Besides, he's a Black. Sirius put him through the mill often enough already. He even was in Nottingham for mental treatment. For weeks. They said they couldn't do any more for him. Creative minds are rarely healthy." He made a pause to push his hands deeper into the pockets of his slacks. "I suppose he shouldn't be promoting murder, but we all have our flaws."

He's a Black. That's why he looks so familiar.

Her mind was racing in time with her heart. But Draco didn't catch what she caught: the once-black cloud of her view on Regulus was beginning to change. When she turned around to search for him in the crowd he was nowhere to be seen.

Damn. I need to remember to talk to him. Even if he hasn't really seen Voldemort it might lead somewhere.

Steps emerged out of the dark behind her. Tom appeared at Hermione's side.

"That's my cue," Draco said, clenching his teeth.

"Draco," Tom greeted in his usual drawl.

"Riddle." Draco pushed away from the pillar, but turned to Hermione. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He left before she could answer him, his hands clenched until his knuckles turned white.

She watched his retreating back with a frown and worried her lower lip between her teeth again. Tom tilted his head but looked innocent. The animosity was painful to watch. She felt as if a bomb was about to explode, and when it happened, she hoped she wouldn't be around.

"What happened between you two?" She looked up at Tom but he was watching her with a careful expression, half-hidden in the shades of the palm trees. The soft light of the lamps flickered orange in his grey eyes.

"I'd dare to say his hostility stems from years of neglect. He thinks I took his brother from him." He reached for her hand and brushed his finger over her knuckles and the small silver band she wore around her finger. Nothing dear, just a plain silver ring her mother gave her when she graduated. "But who's the profiler of us two?"

She smiled sadly.

Who is indeed?

"It seems I'm bad at profiling as soon as personal emotions are involved."

"Emotions, hm?" Tom pulled her closer until his lips met her forehead. She could feel his smug grin. She closed her eyes and hummed in agreement.

They stood in silence for a while, only the night sky above them. When he spoke again his lips brushed her forehead, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Where do you want to go?"

She looked out into the depths of the azure pool and how the lights were slowly swallowed.

"Anywhere."

On the road to Hermione's flat
Sunday, 14th September
00:37 a.m.
10 days until the next murder

Riddle drove his car much like he did everything else in his life: with a calm expression and utter precision. Hermione sunk deeper into the warm seat and smelled leather and honey-wax used to keep them in shape. The evening had been spectacular and she felt the tension that stitched her shoulders slowly slipping away to the tunes of the radio. She felt numinous.

"It was special," Hermione said and leaned back into the cushions of the car, her nose almost touching the leather. "I have never seen such extravagance before."

"It had its own charm, I suppose. Abraxas likes to dwell in gold and glamour. He has a peculiar taste in art. Nothing I'd buy, I'm afraid."

"So you're interested in art?"

Tom's lips stretched into a small grin that made his face look younger and mischievous around the little laughter lines that drew on the corner of his lips.

"I suppose. I visited the Tate Gallery of Modern Art last month. They had an interesting exhibition going on. Normality. Vincent van Gogh said Normality is a paved road-"

"It's comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow," Hermione finished. Tom's grin stretched wider. She wanted desperately to impress him and if she did, she waited for his praise. Her skin started to tingle with anticipation. "But who has the right to entitle normality. To put a label to the norm. It's limiting."

"It's boring," Tom said. His handsome face was half hidden in the shadows of the night, half lit from the changing street lights. "As soon as you're not what they call normal, they start to call you a monster."

Hermione snorted. Tom met her gaze with an elegantly curved eyebrow and held it for a second before he concentrated back on the road again. He was interested.

"You seem to disagree."

"Humanity is fast to paint someone a monster, but people rarely are. Even if they sometimes do horrible things for the wrong reasons, there's always a human being right under the skin. People aren't born monsters. People make them."

"What about Voldemort?"

The question took her by surprise. She weighed her answer slowly as if she had to make sure that the words were chosen with utter care. Tom's eyes were hard on the street but Hermione couldn't help but feel strangely tested. As if she was walking on eggshells. It was tantalising.

"I think," she said as Tom shifted gear, "that Voldemort wants to tell us a tale. A twisted tale of ambition, desire and human perversity, for sure. But I think he doesn't see himself as the monster. More as the hero of his own story. And I think while that makes him dangerous it doesn't necessarily make him a monster. A threatening force, certainly. But not a monster."

"So what does it make him?"

"Lonely." Her words felt heavy and sad inside her mouth. She turned her head away and watched the streetlights come and go like a play of colours.

When Tom stopped the car Hermione needed a second to understand that they had already arrived at the doorstep of her cosy apartment in the heart of London. Rain that had hung over this part of London like a thick blanket, dripped from the old theatre billboard on the other side. Now the clouds had moved on but the humid air was still slipping through the pores of the brickwork.

"So," she said and smiled nervously, brushing some stray locks that had given into gravity back behind her ear. She risked a glance to the side and looked at Tom, who had turned slowly toward her. He didn't look peaceful either, but his breathing was low and even.

So there is a way to make Dr Riddle nervous it seems.

He hummed in agreement, a low dark chuckle that made her straighten up, and brushed his long fingers over Hermione's freezing hand. Even in the dim orange light of the streetlights, she could clearly feel the intensity of his eyes on her face. She breathed in and out, steadily, like a heartbeat. The clock ticked on.

"It was a nice evening. I would really like to meet you again, Hermione." He traced each knuckle on her hand with his index finger, slowly, deliberately as if he wanted to imprint each and every dip of her skin. It was a warning. She could feel a blush creeping into the flesh of her cheeks.

"I would really like that," she said after a beat.

"Coffee? On Tuesday?" His finger stopped at her wrist and drew circles around her veins. Carefully she nodded, her breath locked behind her teeth when she caught his gaze staring at her. She wondered if it was even possible for his eyes to get more intense than at this moment. She sincerely doubted it.

He brought her hand to his lips and took the time to brush a kiss to her knuckles before he leaned in to brush another to her lips. She tipped her head and felt his body slowly leaning into her, his hands finding their way behind her head and pulling her closer. The kiss was like an instinct neither of them could deny. It was a wild mess of lips against lips, breath against breath. It was harsh. Urgent. Warm.

The contact broke far too early and she felt herself leaning into the space that he had occupied a second ago. Tom's face appeared and disappeared in her field.

When she left the car her centre of gravity split. Her lips were wound-bitten and her hair was a mess where he had run his long fingers through. Suddenly everything of her was drawn to him like water to the pond.

"I could really use some coffee right now," and she stopped mid-sentence with her feet pushed together and one hand still on the metal of the car door. "How about you?"

In the distance, the billboard's broken light flashed from orange to yellow and back to orange again. Tom's face was cast in shadow. Something dark and haunted. In a blink, it was gone.

His bright eyes were searching for something in her face.

"I'd love that," he finally said, drawling the words with more emphasis than necessary. He flashed her a devilishly handsome grin. As he locked the car the lights illuminated the pavement at her feet.

They made their way up to her flat in comfortable silence even though every nerve in her body was on fire. She let them in with her keys and closed the door carefully behind her back. Her heart was drumming like a beast. No one had ever made her feel so carnal.

Tom looked around in the half-dark but his eyes soon found their way back to her face again. He leaned back into her personal space and trapped her between his arms and his body, long fingers splayed at the wooden door. Hermione felt her grin itching at her cheeks.

"I want to kiss you", his breath tickled the heated flesh of her cheeks.

"What keeps you from doing it?"

"I think if I kiss you now I won't be able to stop."

"Then don't," she said, voice betraying her as she leaned closer, standing on her tiptoes and clutched the lapels of his sports jacket with her freezing fingers as though she was afraid he would just disappear if she wouldn't hold on.

Something dark flashed behind Tom's grey eyes. Something possessive. He lunged for her and pressed their bodies flat against the door until the wood pushed achingly into Hermione's back. She didn't mind at all.

It shouldn't have been different from any other man she'd ever kissed, including Victor who had meant the world to her for the length of a summer. It should have felt sloppy and warm and somehow similar to all the kisses before. But it didn't. Instead, it was toe-curling, messy and wet in the way only the right kisses were.

She buried her hands deeper into his rich dark hair and closed her eyes against reality. When their lips met she was sure that her heart belonged unconditionally to him.

He tasted like the edge of the galaxy and the waves tried to push her under.

Everything around her sank away when the ocean took her.

Falling in love is to become a monster.
How else can you love so hungry, so rough, so devoted - until you fall apart?

I wanted to kill her.
Of course I wanted to kill her.

She - I didn't thought she'd be worth it.
Why would she? No one was before. No one is. No one can be.

But I was wrong.
God, I was so wrong.

The things she said, the things she thought made me reevaluate her value. I was in love with her mind. Murder and torture were clean-cut for me, but love, love would always be a mystery.
A serious mental illness.
How could one word, one sentence turn throw everything into retrospect? What else would she say that would turn my view upside down?

I made a decision that day that changed the outcome of our story. I let her live, just a tad longer, to hear what else her beautiful, complicated, and broken mind would come up with.
Like a countdown.
A sentence bought her a day.

But Fish was a lust-killer. This one is … different. - another day to let her live.
Steel rope, 0.6 diameter. - another day.
Do you know the method of psychological bricks, Tom? - another day.
You're a storyteller. - another day.
To put a label to the norm. It's limiting. - another day.
But not a monster. - another day.
Lonely. - another day…..