When the White Skin began to make threats, she knew it was time.
It was a rainy day. When the air smelled of feverish hay and the sun was very damp. They were lying in bed. She was cupped like a spoon in his strong body. And wore his arms around her golden shoulders like a sweater. She squeezed him to her so tightly, that her long golden nails broke the skin on his arms in little red streaks like inside out veins.
She couldn't stop crying. She couldn't tell him why. She wouldn't let him kiss her. She wanted him to hold her and not make love to her just hold her. He rocked her like a baby and stroked her hair. He started to say that he loved her, to whisper it in her ear in his syrupy, sticky-sweet voice, but she stopped him pseudo-lovely.
She asked him to turn around. She said she wanted to massage his back, but really she didn't want to have to see the look on his face. He obliged why wouldn't he? Rolled over onto his stomach and she mounted him, crawling slowly, tracing her hands up and down his lovely broad back where their love marks were still burned into his skin. And leaking her eyes down into his hair. She covered his sinewy hips with her lean golden ones, the way he covered her mouth with his. The crying would never stop.
She pressed a kiss against the back of his neck, and then rested there, weighing her wet salty cheek on his smooth warm skin. He stirred and said "What's wrong baby?" She put a kunai between his shoulder blades and dug it down deep to the hilt, slicing neatly through the meat of his chest cavity. She pressed down until she could feel the soft textures of the pillow on the other side with the tip of the kunai. She stroked his hair until his body stiffened. And then left with the kunai, in a parade of bread crumb sized dollops of blood. Feeling thankful that she had never had to see his eyes. Crying. Feeling empty. And heading back to the room of smoke and mirrors and the White Skin. Halfway there she almost put the kunai to her own throat.