Even covered in blood he's strangely beautiful.

In a twisted way, it suits him. Ordinarily every aspect of him is white and glowing. His hair, his skin. Even his eyes are light-colored up close. The blood is heavy enough to look dark crimson on him; it dries in rust-colored streaks over his face and has formed an odd, solitary smear on his bare chest that resembles nothing so much as a handprint.

He's kneeling between her parted legs and his every breath comes fast and panted. He's still gripping the knife in his white-knuckled hands. White. Everything is white, his body and hers and the walls all around them, the empty room with the empty floor she's laying on. Everywhere are the splashes of blood. The room is brightly lit. She has to close her eyes against the constant spray of red-on-white. Card colors. She thinks of countless games of Solitaire. It is hard to concentrate. She feels him looking down at her thighs.

It had been his idea. (Everything was.) She'd bled when he laid her out on this floor and taken her. It had excited him. He'd gotten the knife and now he's gotten carried away and he still isn't making a move to help her. She's dizzy and she can't speak. Or maybe she can; he looks so ethereal and pretty and bloody every time she opens her eyes she just wants to lay still and admire him.

Now, she's pretty sure she's dying. He hasn't said a word since reentering the room, but suddenly he's smiling and swiping his fingers through the blood all over her. He reaches up and draws a line over her cheek.

"See how pretty," he whispers, solemn as a little boy. She closes her eyes again.

"Don't leave me."

"I won't." It sounds like a promise, but he's gazing at the blood instead of her face. It doesn't matter; when she opens her eyes she doesn't look.

She dies like pins and needles, cold all over and finding herself gradually unable to move first this part and then that one until at last she can't move at all. She lies perfectly still and stares up at the white ceiling till he gently closes her eyes with his fingertips. She can't hear her heartbeat. Death feels oddly anticlimactic; she keeps staring at the back of her eyelids.

"So pretty," he murmurs from the door. His footsteps sound and it closes it behind him.