He leaned in whispered he would love her forever.
He held her close and begged her to stop crying. He asked her if that was what she wanted his last memory with her to be of.
He told her it wouldn't hurt, really. That she wouldn't feel a thing.
He only wanted to keep her forever.
The knife was long and bright, its untainted blade gleaming in the moonlight, which streamed in through the bedroom window. He held it gingerly, as though handling a child, eyes full of wonder.
He showed it to her, appearing hurt when she turned away, brown orbs shimmering with fresh tears. He couldn't understand her pain. Did she not love him as he did her?
He was sure she did. He would make her see.
He tried to calm her.
She watched in horror as he stained his ivory flesh with the red rose petals which fell as he made a slit in his arm with the razor edge. She saw his eyes flash in exhilaration.
She'd married a madman.
He swore he loved her.
She'd clearly married a madman. Somehow, she was insane enough to love him still…
And here, he watched her.
He watched her handsome, careworn features twist in pain as he lifted the knife to her throat and drew a long, thin, red river across her pretty neck. He whispered words of affection to the still warm body of the woman whom he so loved.
Mad? He was perfectly sane.
So beautiful…
She was beautiful even in death, lips parted slightly, her long, brown hair framing her face, the empty stare captivating him.
He laid her on the bed they'd always shared, on the side by the window, as she'd always enjoyed watching the young children running about in the field outside. They would never have any of their own. The field was empty that night. Perhaps it was past bedtime.
He lay next to her, the white sheets now soiled by a red pool surrounding her neck. His hand once again closed around the blade.
It was his turn.
He would soon rejoin his beloved. Never again would they be apart.
He lifted the knife.
He took her hand.