slight ooc. psychotic Erik.
thought that wandered into my head.
please review.
.
.
my love
.
.
I could see her dancing on the stage and she's leaping, twirling, enchanting the audience with her white steps, her feathery arms, her angel wings, her voice reaching the peak notes of ecstasy.
The bile rises in my throat because how dare she? I grip the armrests and glare balefully at my goddess.
And still, she dances.
.
.
.
"Not everything beautiful can belong to you," she says to me and I see the disappointment in her eyes.
My hand itches to slap her. I don't want sympathy.
"Everything beautiful is mine," I hiss.
She only gives me that same distressed look before she turns with quicksilver steps and leaves.
.
.
.
She knows I'm broken inside.
She taunts me for it.
I hate her.
I want her.
.
.
.
I see crimson on my hands and I laugh. She looks at me with sadness. Not fear, not pain.
"You don't want this," she whispers.
I shake my head.
"You're right. I need this."
.
.
.
They wonder where she's gone. They cry for her in the streets. They beg for her return.
Their beautiful prima donna.
I stride past them and smile.
She's mine now.