“You will grow to think blood is beautiful. In time, you learn to love Death. Eventually, you will think the screams of humans are like music. With time, you will savor blood like the sweetest wine or food; innards will run over your fingers like the softest silk, soft as breath. You will come to anticipate the sharp intake of breath before you advance on your prey—and it will give you pleasure to shatter them into millions of pieces with your own hands.”

He takes the butterfly in his white hands, and it is beautiful.

“It is lovely, isn’t it? Blood on a butterfly’s wings.”

She does not reply.

“Blood makes everything beautiful. Even the ugliest can be made exquisite by that sweet liquid. Even you, my darling Butterfly.” He reaches out to touch her cheek, smearing blood across her sharp cheekbones, down her square jaw, across her thin lips. Her handsome brow is covered by a veil of perspiration, and she is beautiful. “This is actually a moth, you know,” he continues, his voice a pleasant tenor. “The color of the blood made it seem like a slender butterfly—am I right, Butterfly? Were you fooled, my delicate Butterfly? See, it’s just like you…” His long fingers slip behind her and rest on the warm nape of her neck, feeling the shivers pass up and down her spine. Her eyes see him crush the butterfly with his hand, the blood dripping between his fingers. “Breakable.” He lets the dead insect fall to their feet; and he takes her harshly; and she is beautiful, his sweet, sweet butterfly.

…I have no clue where this came from so don’t ask me. I’m not even sure why he’s covered in blood. You can take this anyway you like it. : This is a peace offering for my lack of updating. Take it if you wish. :D