The serial killer's weakness
Her pulse thrummed at the speed of a frightened rabbit, blue veins interlocking like branches on an old tree. Her face was fading to an ice blue and I suddenly found myself liking the colour. My hand felt huge in comparison to her small neck, if I applied too much pressure it would snap like a twig. Despite the dangerous position she was in, she was smiling up at me, milky eyes full of tears that broke free and carved translucent lines in her pale cheeks. "Why are you still here," I snarled, my eyes a breath away from hers. "Because I love you," the answer was expected and a pleasing feeling of control flooded my body. "No matter how many times I hurt her she would look at me with those blank eyes that showed the most emotion I had ever seen, I would never admit it to her but I was quite fond of her. Releasing her throat, I gave her a moment to cough and splutter. Growing impatient, I trailed my fingers down the marks the tears had left. I don't know what love feels like, I don't think I'll ever know, but right now I think I love her the most I ever could love anything. It was a confusing feeling, a feeling that made me want to protect her instead of do her harm, it was my own brand of love. "Go fetch my knife xim," a giddy smile lit up her face, she didn't hesitate in walking he familiar path to my draw of toys. "This one," she asked, a freshly sharpened butcher knife in her hand. "Yes, that one," I smirked, striding over to her.
Casimir, a young serial killer discovers that there's more to life than slaughtering young girls at bars.