The Night He Died

By Noyze

Author's Note: I'm having serious writer's block for my other story, Write About The Stars, so I decided to try something new to get my inspiration back. This is a one-chapter story, from the point of view of a love-obsessed psycho. The inspiration for this story is the song "Bloody Valentine" by Good Charlotte.

The rain came down so hard that night….

Lights flashed, and people shouted. You look around numbly as a policeman puts handcuffs on you. He says something, but you don't listen.

Where is she, where is she?

You had called her and told her what you did. It was okay now, he was gone.

She had started crying. She must have been so happy.

Then she came to his house. You were standing by him on the front lawn. She screamed when she saw him. Then the police came.

The rain rolled off your head, onto your shoulders. Your clothes are drenched. The rain spreads the bloodstains on your shirt. The ones on your hands fade slightly.

Where is she?

You see her, off to the side. She's talking to a policeman. She has a blanket wrapped around her. Tears are falling down her face. Her mother stands behind her, hand on her shoulder.

Why was she crying? It was okay now. She was yours.

"Please don't cry," you whisper.

You start to walk over to her. The policeman stops you roughly.

You jerk back to reality.

It's raining, hard. Your in a taped off area. People swarm around outside the tape. Some are crying, some are screaming. It's loud, so loud. Others hold their children protectively. You have bright shiny handcuffs around your wrists. She's inside the taped area too. Crying for her valentine.

Where is he? You wonder. Then you remember.

He's dead. You killed him.

But it wasn't murder. You had to do it. You loved her. But she couldn't love you, with him around.

You called her name. She looks at you and starts sobbing.

You try to put your hands in your pockets. The handcuffs stop you.

You gasp, realizing what that meant.

You were going to jail. You were a murderer.

He's lying on the ground. The knife is still in his throat.

You killed him. It was you.

What would your mother say? She always said you would have a great future. Maybe she would think it wasn't you. She would hire a lawyer and defend you. It would be okay.

You look down at your bloody hands and know that that's not possible.

The policeman guides you to the car.

"No!" You yell. There's a brief silence. Then everyone starts yelling.

The policeman opens the door. You pull away from him, but he holds on.

"I love you! I love you!" You yell. She looks at you with such hatred. Her mascara is smeared, and her beautiful red dress is wet. People try to comfort her.

Why? Why does she hate you?

You know. Says the voice in the back of your mind. You killed him. See him there? He's her bloody valentine.

"But I love her," you whisper.

The policeman forces you into the car.

You see an old woman sit on the muddy ground next to him, and take his hand.

It's his mother.

She's crying.

Your insides go cold. You stop breathing.

What have you done?

The car drives away, lights flashing. People jeer at you.

You gasp.

You're a murderer.

What have you done?