a/n: I wanted to try something a bit different for this one. The inspiration was From First to Last's "Waltz Moore". It's a great song. Oh, and another thing: Did you realize that tear (as in crying) and tear (as in ripping) are spelled the same? I'd never thought about it before... Please review!

Smudged makeup and tears still streaming down her face, Heather sits down at her vanity table, refuses to look at herself in the mirror, and retrieves the tape dispenser from the second drawer. She presses her thumb against the plastic teeth and rubs them back and forth over her skin.

I love you. Don't you love me too?

No.

Why not?

Consideration. Because… I hate you. You can’t love something you hate.

A pinprick of blood and she throws the tape back in the drawer, slams it shut violently with the palm of her hand. Something sharper. Sharper than a plastic tape dispenser with its dull plastic teeth that only irritate the skin, not pierce it.

Ever heard of masochism?

That’s hurting what you love.

You’re hurting me.

He snorts. Yeah, but I don’t love you.

Quick glances in the mirror and surveys of the room, she comes up empty handed and downhearted. Heather runs her fingers through her hair and longs to take a shower, but she knows now is not the time. Only the sick die in the bathroom. Does she want to die?

Why not?

Haven’t we been over this?

Love is a vicious cycle.

Folds arms. It’s vicious, true, but I’d hardly call you following me love.

A blink of the eye and she can’t decide. Heather remembers the letter opener and slowly opens the second drawer again, ignoring the tape and going for the big guns: A sharp-tipped letter opener with flowers engraved into the metal, a rose at the end of the hilt. She pulls it out like a knight withdraws his sword from its scabbard before the battle and regards it with the same reverence.

What would you call it then?

Creepy for one.

And another?

Pause. Stalking.

Fingers trace the blade. Sharper than a tape dispenser. Sharp enough? Time for a test. Heather makes a fist around the handle with her right hand and bares the pale underside of her left arm. Slowly, artfully, she carves, her fingers clenching and releasing in time with her heartbeat. Too soon she finishes and his name is now a shining red banner unfurling across her arm.

Dabs at her arm with a tissue pulled from the cardboard cube on her vanity table but it’s not enough to staunch the flow of blood seeping from the letters etched into her flesh. An old shirt does the trick, bound tightly over the wound and tied at the elbow with a shaking hand that is reluctant to release its hold on the letter opener.

Stalking? Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?

“Not at all," breaks the silence. She makes the first mark on her cheek, one long line from the edge of her eye to her jawbone, and now she’s crying sanguine tears.

Her blood soaks through the old shirt, revealing those red letters that spell out his name so nicely…