She was so beautiful.
Our organs did not fit together like a puzzle and neither did our fingers; mine were long and hard with sharp purple nails and hers were soft, the nails shiny and rounded. Our mouths were in a constant battle for peace - my sharp, pointed teeth scraping against her pink tongue.
A strand of her shiny yellow hair never interwove with a piece of my damaged and teased hair as it was supposed to. Our bodies clashed uncomfortably, my bones digging into her soft round breasts.
I remember one night, on the dock, she lay with her head between my breasts.
"I can hear your heart." She murmured.
"Can you?" I didn't look down at her, I instead stared out at the moon reflected in black water.
"No," She propped herself up on her elbows and forced me to meet her eyes, "I can't."
I smiled coldly and returned to staring out at the water.
I never told her this, but I loved it when she hurt. I didn't want to reveal to her how sadistic I actually was, so I masked my smile with black and waited for her to fall down.
"Vampires!" She remarked, shocked, her eyes big. I smiled a pointy-toothed smile, not telling her anything.
I tried to be nice. I wound her soft hair around my fingers, curling it like I'd seen so many other lovers do. My fingers became entangled in her yellow locks and, in a moment of irrational panic, I pulled a small clump of spun gold out of her scalp. The smear of crimson looked so pretty, and I asked her to dye her hair to match. She stared up at me, unbelieving, the tears of pain shining on her cheek. I frowned and nodded, then got up and left her.
We would walk, but never hand in hand. Quite an image we were, a pretty girl in faded jeans next to an androgynous shadow, whose black duster whispered as it brushed the ground.
I did not mutilate her body but I did mutilate her soul. My hate had caused a sort of cancer in her and not until later did I realise that the tumor was real as well as metaphorical.
"When you die," she would tell me, "They're going to open you up, and I wonder if they will find anything at all. Are you even human?"
"I bleed." I assured her.
She was too weak to stand but I wouldn't call the doctors. They would fix her, and I loved it when she was broken. Perfection wouldn't make you anything but a god, and the last thing the world needs is another one of those.
"I wish I could have loved you." She told me as she gestured to the pistol on the nightstand. I gave it to her and lifted her hand to her forehead, holding her arm steady. Her finger struggled weakly against the trigger.
"You have to do it, darling, you have to pull it." I whispered into her ear. She shut her eyes and pulled as hard as her frail finger would allow.
Her head did not explode. Blood and brains and bits of skull did not decorate the room like a flashy pyrotechnics show. She simply fell backwards onto the pillow. There was no hole in her forehead.
She couldn't pull the trigger.
I smiled and picked up her pills.