This story has a different tone to it than my others. Hope you like it.

Love Kills

By Crazywritings

"Are you sure you'll be okay, sweetie?" Mother asked, concern thick in her voice. I looked up at her. She looked positively gorgeous in a silk red sheath that extended to the floor, nearly every inch covered in shimmering glitter. Her black shawl hung at the crook of her elbow and draped around her back. A large diamond necklace lay daintily along her collarbone, diamond earrings dripped off her ears, and her black hair was swept up dramatically and sat atop her head. Of course, her makeup was done to perfection; she'd never have it any other way. But she looked different tonight. Perhaps it was the air of a special occasion that surrounded her, making her more stunning than usual, drawing eyes to her and commanding that everyone marvel at the confidence she exuded as she strutted around in her sky-high heels.

How she could walk around in four-inch stilettos with a floor-length gown without so much as a single teeter would never fail to impress me. I'd tried it once before, when I was fourteen and home alone. For a few seconds, I felt truly beautiful, powerful, and graceful, all in one fell swoop. In the next few seconds, my face was introduced to the floor, and they did not like each other.

"Get out of here, you crazy kids," a weak grin etched itself across my lips. "Have a great time." Who was I to waste such a delectable ensemble? Even my father looked strangely dapper, even if his tuxedo was a little too big and creased in the wrong places. He was handsome enough to pull it off with ease, his warm brown eyes glittering in the light of my mother's diamonds.

The man of the thought came striding down the hall, fiddling with his tie. It was silk, obviously; Mother wouldn't have him non-matching. Strangely enough, though, he clearly understood, and even chose it for himself.

"Are you positive?" he said. His eyes were uncharacteristically hard, looking more like stone than chocolate. The natural careless aura he carried with him seemed to be put on pause for a moment as he appraised me seriously.

"Dad," I groaned, tilting my head to the side like a four year old. "I'm eighteen. Please, I can stay home alone." The weak grin returned, and he was assured that I was only joking about my reasons for complaining.

"Hon, it's your first time alone since…" Mother trailed off, unwilling to finish. Her vivid red lips pursed in worry. It was torture, seeing the two of them like this. They'd been driven into fear of leaving their own house, leaving their own daughter alone for a couple of hours. Had it really come to this? How had it all gotten so out of hand? He was one person, one lone heart of ice, one mistake. He was part of the past, and he would stay that way. As a bonus, he was securely behind bars.

"Mom, we've got golf clubs downstairs and three bats in my bedroom," I reasoned. "I think I'll be able to fend anyone off for at least a little bit." I didn't say his name. I didn't dare. The name was something of a taboo, not just in our home, but in our entire community. It was like Voldemort to Harry Potter. Anyone we'd come in contact with would choke on marbles before they uttered the name. Honestly, it was all a bit over the top. Though I wouldn't even say the word, it was more out of habit than sheer fear.

I was over it. I was past it. It was done.

"Your batting wasn't rock solid in softball," my dad joked, the gleam in his eyes returning. "I'm not so sure you should rely heavily on the bat." A feather-light slap was granted to him by my mother, but all he had to do was smile at her and she was won over. I was incredibly lucky, you know. My parents were still smitten with each other, even after twenty years of marriage.

"Sure, sure," I dismissed him with a wave of my hand. "Leave. Now. You're going to be late."

"Are you sure?" my mom insisted once more.

"Do I need to kick you out the door?"

"I'd like to see you move this big ol' butt!"

"Dad, you're not fat."

"Let's go Sean. We'll see you later, sweetie. We've locked the doors, windows, everything, okay?" She still wasn't convinced. I could still practically see her heart trying to leap out of her chest and take me with them. The woman would definitely go prematurely gray, there was no doubt about it; she worried so much. Ever since I was a toddler she'd worried, from cupcake years to college application years, she mulled and paced to and fro, hair tied into a messy bun and feet clad in fuzzy slippers.

But tonight, she looked like a star. Tonight, she was dressed to impress. Tonight, she could truly shine without shame. I wasn't going to rob her of that.

So I leapt up from my seat on the couch, trotted over to her, and threw my arms around her. At first, my grip was tentative; I didn't know if there was anything to be cautious of, perhaps a zipper or strap that could easily be snapped or snipped. But she returned the hug with vigor, pulling me into her chest like I was her newborn again, like she would never let me go as long as I lived. Not as long as she lived, for that wasn't long enough. A mother protected her child through any and everything, and that's just what she would do.

"I love you," I whispered, nuzzling my nose just beneath her necklace.

"I love you, sweetheart," she mumbled as she stroked my hair. Suspended in this moment, I wasn't eighteen. I was six, and we were huddled together in the center of the living room as a storm roared outside the bay window. With each crack of lightning and snarl of thunder, she would pull me tighter into her embrace, and I would feel more and more careless, more certain of the direction of my life. In fact, there was no future; there was just this moment, just this moment of indefinite safety, with not a worry or fear to be heard of.

Of course, life goes on, and I let my hands drop to my sides. She reclaimed hers as well, but not without a loving look tossed my way.

"Be safe," she breathed. I nodded fervently. She requested such silly things sometimes. I would hardly go bounding out of the house mere heartbeats after they'd left, off to search for Mr. Criminal once again. Sometimes I thought she'd forgotten that I still bore the scar, and that it still blazed every now and again, in the darkest night, when my regrets and toils returned to haunt me.

"Always," I assured her.

I watched them leave. I watched them descend the stairs, shut the front door, slide into the car, pull out of the driveway, and speed off. I even listened intently to hear my mother's clicking of heels, or maybe the faintest breath of my father's chuckle. By coloring, the two could've been related; black hair and brown eyes provided a classic look for the both of them. And me, you ask? Did I, too, bear the dark coloring that would cement my status as their daughter from a brief glance at most? Was I their offspring not only in genetics and behavior, but in appearance as well? In answer, I was not. I had somehow ended up with recessive alleles, with dark blonde hair and shocking green eyes, but I'll not do a Punnett Square for you, here and now. I digress.

The night began slow and steady, darkness having already crept in and clung to every crevice it could find. It seemed the only thing to battle away the darkness was the snow, iridescent in the sunlight, and yet still unhampered by the lack of luminescence. Actually, it was luminous in itself, providing its own light to battle the thick ink that was the night. The ground was definitive now, thanks to the beacon known as the snow.

Some how, foolishly, the snow seemed to settle everything. It seemed to scare away all the dangers of life, all the uncertainties. How readily I prove the naïveté of the teenager, or young adult for the picky.

Computer, TV, cell phone, and everything in between. That was how my night was spent. Electronics abounded, all at my disposal. As a near-college student, I probably should have been out partying, drinking myself into a coma, or maybe having sex with some gorgeous stranger. Then in a few mornings, I would wake up and have a stare-down with the pregnancy test, daring it to test positive while I could've sworn I felt something kick in my tummy.

But that life seemed so trivial to me. I was not antisocial, not by anyone's standards; I had great friends, great connections, and a bright future. I was relatively gifted as a singer, but my passion was writing. Frankly, I had my choice. There were really better things to do than to drown my brain and synapses in alcohol and drugs. Honestly, the idea that people of my age should always party, party, party was such a stereotype, and everyone apparently believed it. Okay, so we had a tendency to do such. Not all of us did, though. Some actually had a solid future ahead of them and chose the path of good decisions.

Now, don't I sound all high and mighty? So sure of myself, huh? Like I've never made a mistake before in my life? Believe you me; I have had my share of blunders. Not to sound petty, but perhaps more than I deserved. More than anyone deserves, actually. In fact, it was a mistake that could've cost me not just everything I'd worked for, but nearly everything I was, literally my life.

On a whim, I lifted myself lazily from the couch. My legs knew where they were taking me prior to my mind, but boy, were they taking me there. While my heart was cautious, my brain was thick with refusal at the same time my lower half was set on the course. Sometimes, I made decisions that I had no clue why I made them. You ever feel that? You just have something in your gut that tells you what to do, like a conductor to a band? You don't know why you follow it, yet you do it anyway. The trust you have in it is inconceivable, like an instinct. Actually, it is an instinct.

This is what carried me to my room. I had not a clue in the world what it was that I wanted until I'd found what I was looking for. There, beneath my bed, folded neatly into a perfect square, were the things I'd been searching for. With steady hands, I seized the chalky papers and yanked them into fresh air. The headlines beamed back at me, like they were relieved to finally be free of the prison of dust bunnies and shoe dirt, like they were praising me for being a good citizen and uprooting them from their jail. They sang to me, sang every word I wanted to hear, every word I knew by heart and had memorized of no one's accord but my own, the words that had floated around my head in a jumbled mess, refusing to come together until the moment had presented itself.

LOVE KILLS

That was the headline that seemed to scream at me with all its might. How little the reporters actually knew. How little they actually cared. All they wanted was their scoop, their breaking news, the story that would make them arrive in the journalism business. It sickened me to know that I'd given it to them.

Well, maybe it wasn't me. Maybe it was God. I didn't have a choice, now did I?

I remembered everything clearly. He was a fresh picture in my mind, never to fade away as long as I live. His perfect features were scalded in my brain; no longer were they attributes of an angel, but now they were the symbol of the devil himself. My stomach twisted just at the thought of it. Of him.

I really should've visited her grave more often than I did. My best friend, I mean. I often wondered how he felt, how it felt, watching the glistening blade slide easily along the creamy skin, just the barest of pressure needed to break the thin barrier and unleash the river of crimson, the river of life. It poured out of her, all because of him. It poured out of his best friend, all because of him. I wondered at the power, the control he must have felt, the ease in which he delicately sliced the supple membrane.

A shudder bolted down my spine. Banish, banish those thoughts. But I simply couldn't, not as I gazed at the dull gray paper, the black print dead and factual, like the loss of those two lives were nothing more than two more to toss in the ground. Was that all they were? Was that simply their destiny? No, it couldn't be. They meant so much, they meant more than anyone could imagine.

But not to anyone else. They only mattered…to me.

And he killed them.

For me.

If you heard the story, it would seem trivial. It would seem stupid. It would seem foolish to the untrained eye. But you don't have the heart, the scars, the unfading burns in your brain that refuse to be silenced, no matter how much you fight them. They only lessen, quiet down, but never truly fade away. Love will drive people insane. Love will push anyone to their limit. Love will make someone crazy enough to kill his best friend and his girlfriend's best friend.

Is it worth the risk? Is it really worth it? Is all the peril really a fair sacrifice merely for the heart's ache? When appraised in cold idealism, of course it isn't. It should fade, no? One will move on. But of course, many fail to put it in context, and many more simply cannot. They don't have the ability to, for they have yet to fall in love, to feel the absoluteness and conviction of the…the promise. Yes, indeed, it is a promise, a promise that means equal to life itself, for you are promising your life to the other.

But there, in print, it seemed so silly. Teenagers, young and in love, playing a sweet, innocent game that abruptly turned violent and dangerous. Crazy, one may say. Yes, it is crazy. I could never deny that what he did was absolutely insane. Thinking of ending life is insane. But the love itself? That was a different kind of insane. It was an insane that no one could control, and no one tried to. Not until it was far, far too late.

There are things in this world that cannot be tamed, and the heart is one of them.

In a fury, I shoved the paper back beneath my bed, disgust and regret rising in my throat. All I wanted to do was climb under my covers, to be swallowed by nothingness and darkness, to be diving into indifference. I had no desire to deal with the past, not now, not ever. Therapy had been completed; everything was over and done with. Some sick, perverted need burned in me to linger upon the gory details; it was indescribable. It was almost as though I was still trying to believe it had happened.

Like it wasn't enough for me to reach for my cell phone, about to send a text to Whitney, only to be met with the harsh reality that she was gone, and unfortunately, Heaven didn't have very good service.

Sometimes, instant gratification is all you need. Sometimes it can make everything all better. So I pursued this instant gratification by climbing atop my mattress and nestling beneath the blankets. The wrapped around me and I felt as though I was safe. There is a sense of safety in warmth. It relaxes every inch of the body, plummeting it into serenity. It's a heady feeling, I'll tell you.

If the same comfort could be found in the cold, I would've slept outside in the snow. But unfortunately, cold symbolizes danger, just as ice symbolizes despair.

**

Perhaps a noise awoke me. Perhaps a creak of a window, a rattle of the blinds, or a whisper of cloth against wood. Maybe it was some long-buried, deeply hidden instinct that dragged me out of my peaceful slumber and threw me back into the real world. But I slept soundly; I was practically dead to the world, my senses seemingly turned off, simply shut down until I decided to wake up. Of course, I responded to touch. One cannot sleep through someone shaking them. My sense of touch actually seemed to be quite acute in my sleep, at its highest point.

Perhaps it was my sense of touch that jarred me awake. Perhaps it was the cold air rushing in that woke me up.

Regardless of how it happened, I did awaken. My eyelids fluttered and slid open. Consciousness greeted me, albeit unwillingly and unhappily, as I struggled back to the real world. I had to leave the world of suspension behind. I don't recall dreaming; no memories of flickering images come to my brain as I reminisce about the event (not that I particularly like reminiscing, mind you).

But I do remember the first sight I saw as my lashes parted. A silhouette blocked the ricocheted light from the snow. Even with the black night as its background, the outline was still crystal clear. A sick yet accurate sense in my gut let out a wail, a wail that traveled along my nerves and struck my mind with such ferocity that I was abruptly and sharply awake within milliseconds of fully regaining my surroundings. I snapped up immediately, my head wheeling because of the speed at which I ascended. And even in the dark, the features possessed by the silhouette were crystal clear as well.

There was no mistaking the great physique, ruffled brown hair, and piercing grey eyes that gripped my heart.

A strange, sickly gurgling sound bubbled in my throat.

"Selena," rumbled a low, deep voice. My stomach abruptly pitched, and I felt as though I would throw up. This couldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening.

"…How…?" I choked, my voice box refusing to work. It will always fascinate me, how bodily functions either shut down or heighten in times of danger and emergency. It's either one or the other; obviously, it could never be both. I suppose it would depend on just how striking the situation is. In my case, apparently I shut down when I'm in the greatest peril.

Great. Just awesome.

"I will always find you, Selena," the voice cooed, and the figure began to move. It grew bigger and bigger, and I knew it was approaching me. Fervent commands were sent to every muscle in my body, demanding they move, begging them to act. But nothing changed. Not a single, solitary twitch could be found amongst me; only my eyes were functioning.

So I was only able to watch with terror as he stood directly before me.

"You haven't changed a bit," he whispered. A cool touch brushed against my cheek. It seemed that this ignited something, maybe flipped a switch, and suddenly, I was on my feet on the opposite side of my bed. Only the frame was separating us, and yet I was counting on it as though I would count on a lifeline if I was drowning. In a sense, I was drowning—drowning in memories, drowning in thoughts that I'd tried so desperately to suppress.

"No, not one bit," I could see his teeth gleam in the dark, bright beneath his smirk. "Though you never used to leap away from me."

"You're not Tyler Cross," came my undignified whimper as I shoved my back against the chilly white wall. "You're not Tyler Cross, you're not Tyler Cross, please don't be Tyler Cross—"

"Have I ever told you how much I love it when you say my name?" he wondered aloud. How could his stance be so casual, so carefree? "The way it just falls from your lips…" he stopped for a moment, and I felt his attention focus on me, a laser beam focused on its quivering target. "Your beautiful, soft lips."

I didn't even see it coming. One second, he was facing me from the other side of the bed, and then his mouth was on mine. A shriek tore from my throat, but it was so pathetically muffled. He didn't even consciously choose to muffle it; his insistent lips did it for him.

My hands tried to be just as insistent as I pushed with all my might against his rock-like chest. For some reason, he did pull back, if only a millimeter. It was just enough for me to be able to look into his smoky gray eyes. A tingle shot down my spine as I did so. They weren't the eyes of Tyler Cross, the man I had loved once upon a time; they were the eyes of a cold-blooded killer, a killer that cared for life as an author would care for the complexities of mathematic equations.

And yet they still managed to use my own eyes as a window to my soul. And that's why a smirk played at his mouth once again.

"It's enticing, you know," he muttered, never breaking my gaze. "Your fear. It's so…empowering, it feels so empowering, it feels so good. Almost as good—" he locked his hands securely around my waist— "as this."

Squirming did me no good. I tried that for a few seconds. I felt like a child trying to break free of his mother's demanding hold…you know, if his mother was a body builder or something of the sort. He seemed to be on the same page as me, for he just laughed his throaty laugh at my desperate attempts at freedom. The condescending tone drove me to kick harder, to push harder, to writhe more, but all to no avail.

"Really, Selena," he chortled. "This is getting pathetic."

He was right. It was absolutely pathetic. Now, I had a choice: continue to try and save myself, or give in and end with dignity.

I chose the dignity. Curse my upbringing.

"Please," I sobbed, eventually collapsing against his torso. "Please, leave me alone. Just leave, please. I can't…I don't…" The rest of my words were lost in my blubbering. Strangely enough, he stroked my hair as I rested my forehead against his collarbone. Actually, I suppose it wasn't so strange after all; he seemed to still be lost in the past, lost in the memories, lost in the not-so-forgotten love.

What was strange was that I felt comforted.

"Don't cry," he cooed into my tendrils, his breath rippling warmly across the crown of my head. "Shh, don't cry, love, spill no tears."

Just spill blood instead, I thought bitterly. After all, that was what he came for. To finish the job no doubt. He'd gotten rid of Whitney and Mike; I was all that was left. I was all that was connecting him to his wrongful doings. I'd testified against him in court, I'd done everything I could to put him away, and now he was here for his revenge. A fitting end, I did believe. It was brave in a certain way.

I didn't protest as he slid down onto my sheets, or as he lifted me into his lap, or as he laid down on the bed. I let him do as he wished, fervently against the idea of upsetting him. As much as hope had disappeared from my mind, prolonging my existence a few precious minutes was something I wouldn't object to in the least.

"Do you remember," he began, gazing up at the ceiling from his resting place on my pillow. "the time we went to see Paranormal Activity, and you got so scared you literally crawled in my lap?"

A smile tugged at my lips as the memory flickered through my mind. Red fuzzy theater seats, dark walls, massive silver screen, adrenaline, whimpering, reassuring, kissing… I recalled it all. But I seemed to remember particularly the feel of his smooth mouth caressing mine, his large, gentle hands stroking my thigh into submission, until I was hypnotized enough for him to pull me over the armrest and onto his legs. The movie was bearable then. Everything was bearable then. The world was right in his embrace, feeling the warmth radiating from his body. I nodded into his chest, telling him that I did, in fact, remember.

"And then," he continued as his eyes went misty. "the time we went to the zoo, and you couldn't get enough of the beautiful tigers, but I couldn't buy you the tiger so I got you a kitten instead?"

I chuckled a shaky giggle at that one. He actually, when my attention was diverted, went up to the zoo owner and asked if he could purchase the tiger. Just right out of the blue. He slipped his wallet out and everything, leaving his jean pocket to cling to his rump instead of the leather. Of course he was denied. But that didn't stop him. The next morning, he woke me up at eight in the morning and dragged me, eyes crusty and hair wild with bed head, into the living room to a large kennel. After much urging for me to open it, I finally laid my hand atop the lever and yanked the door open. Out stumbled a tiny, vibrant orange kitten, its eyes huge and glistening.

"And the time," he raced on. He seemed to be encouraged by my laughter. "when we went to the park? It was our first date, our first time actually meeting up…" His voice trailed away, and a sudden tingle sprung to my attention. A certain alertness snapped to order. Unconsciously, my gaze rose up to meet his, and I found his large, smoky eyes trained on me. But I didn't look away. I didn't falter. I held his contact, and yet hyperaware of the palms tracing their way along my waist and back.

"…and our first kiss…" he whispered, and then swooped down and lay his lips on mine. A gasp slipped away from me, but otherwise I did nothing. I reacted in no way, other than to press my mouth further into his.

I suppose I could say that I didn't know what I was doing. I could say that I did it because it felt familiar. I could say I did it because I was left wounded and afraid after him, and I didn't know what else to do, for fear that he may take the blade to me next. But if I did, I would be lying. A burst of lust rippled through me the moment we touched, and it could not be ignored. It was some old, yet not forgotten feeling that he had always had the ability to give me, this carnal need, and the next thing I knew, my hands were everywhere, clawing at his clothes and his gorgeous hair. Anything I could get my grasp on, I gripped until my knuckles turned white.

His energy came through as well. I was in no way the only one to blame. His lips were too persuasive, his fingers too insistent, his body too perfect to be denied. The pads of his fingers found their way easily and flawlessly, knowing exactly where to go and what they wanted, throwing caution to the wind just as I had. No longer was he Tyler Cross, escaped murderer. No longer was I Selena Farquhar, witness protection program obligation. Actually, we weren't even a couple, or anything like that. We were Tyler and Selena, two people that couldn't resist their natural urges for each other.

My nails yanked at his gray prison jumpsuit. To be honest, I didn't even realize it was a prison jumpsuit. I hadn't bothered to note it, nor had I bothered to notice that it was a few shades darker than his incredible eyes. But he responded to me, sliding his hands into my loose sweats and inching them down, sliver by sliver, until my upper thighs were chilled with the freezing air wafting into the room from the open window.

"Damn it, it's cold in here," I hissed, gasping, and then I wriggled closer to him for warmth. He didn't say anything, instead opting for tightening his hold on me, pressing my chest against his with surprising vigor. Then, subtly, skillfully, he tilted his head and ran his tongue over my lower lip, asking permission. I parted my lips, and in slid his tongue, and I returned the favor.

I was all too aware of what exactly I was doing. Not trying to sound weird here, but making out with a criminal is kind of hot. I'm not joking, lying, or being sarcastic, which is strange for me. Perhaps it was just making out with Tyler Cross that was hot, considering he himself was actually hot. Perhaps it was the history behind him, behind us; after all, we did date, we were together, and yes, we did have sex (which was great, just in case anyone was wondering). Perhaps it was the desperate need I felt emanating from him that was so irresistible.

Whatever it was, I couldn't get enough of his delicious mouth clamped onto mine.

"I love you," he mumbled into me. We were frozen for a moment, panting heavily against one another, waiting for my answer.

"I love you, too," I said. As soon as the words had left my tongue, I knew they were true. I knew they'd been true from the moment I'd laid eyes on him. I knew they were true even through the trials, the murders, and the conviction.

And I had to be truly insane.

He stared at me for a second, and then immediately dove back into our previous activity. But he was different than before. He was wilder, crazed, somewhat violent. The movements were no longer politely insisting, but instead vehement, jerky in their nature. He swiftly rolled on top of me, burying me into the mattress. I loved it. I loved his determined, one-track mind. I loved how he knew what we both wanted, and how controlling he was.

But suddenly, he pulled away. A strange, psychotic gleam was glinting in his eyes.

"It was kind of fun, you know," he stated. My stomach rolled, already knowing what he meant. He didn't need to spell it out for me; he knew I wasn't stupid. My mind was already there, wondering the same thing, but not daring to question him. I simply lay there, head against the pillow, completely at his mercy.

I gulped pathetically.

"It was very fun, actually," he was growing louder, more sure with each syllable that dropped from his mouth. "The power, the blood-lust, the excitement. It was all so…intoxicating." With my mouth in a little O, I gaped at him. What was I supposed to do? How could I just kick him away, or push him away?

I couldn't now. It was too late. I'd lost my chance. He was falling into a craze.

He began to lift himself away from me. "Watching the crimson drip from their necks, hearing their last gasping breath—" he jumped off the bed and to his feet, and I shot up in response— "and watching the life drain from their eyes. Oh, love, I can't even describe the way it makes you feel. The invigoration is impossible to explain, impossible to conjure up just the right word.

"I'd do it again," he was pacing now, back and forth along my hard wood floor, lost in his memories of his triumphs. Shivers ran through my nerves, and not because of the cold anymore. "I wish I could be back at that moment, the hilt in my hand. All I had to do was flick my wrist. With that flick of my wrist, I controlled life or death. I was in control. I was powerful. The decision was mine. I'd do it again. The first chance I got--"

He whipped around in my direction and abruptly lunged at me, his hands outstretched. I didn't even have time to gasp before his fingers were wrapped securely around my neck, him smiling down at my horrified expression, his teeth glimmering devilishly. I was sure he felt it. I was positive he could feel the thud of my pulse as his thumbs pressed against my arteries. And judging by that, he could easily assume how much my heart had accelerated, how it was trying to spasm out of my chest and escape out the window.

And then, the spark slid from his gaze. His joints locked up as his jaw dropped open a bit, air rushing in between his lips, making a gentle hissing sound as they passed over his incisors.

"But not you," he breathed. His grip slackened. "Never you. I could never…I would never…" Without warning, his palms instead seized my cheeks as he brought his mouth to mine once again. It was a gentle, tender kiss, one that sent tingles bouncing through me. I even felt him shudder slightly. But then he tugged himself away, and he backed from the bed, from my lips, and into the center of the room.

"I love you," he murmured again. "I really love you. You were my only reason…you were always my only reason…I love you." I saw his right arm tense and his fingers twitch. I knew what he was going to do.

"Tyler, NO!" I shrieked, diving forward, but it was already far too late

The shushing of metal against fabric.

The click of the hammer.

BANG!

---

How didn't I feel it? How didn't I feel the gun, prominent against his defined hip? How was I so oblivious to it?

It was my fault. All my fault. It's always my fault. Why is it always my fault? Three people I loved, dead, gone, because of me. My fault. It's always my fault.

Will I ever stop killing? Will I end my spree of death, or will I continue to destroy the lives of those I care most for? How will I be stopped?

Mom and Dad took me to the cemetery. Well, to both, actually. First, we went to Whitney and Mike's graves. They were buried next to each other. That was the only way to do it. They really liked each other. It was pretty neat, actually. Sometimes, Whitney, Mike, Tyler, and I would double date, but that was before Tyler and I decided to spend some time on our own. And that was way before Whitney and Mike saw Tyler change. And that was before they decided to try and break us up, for my safety. Which was way, way before I saw Tyler change.

Everything seemed so long ago. Time needed to slow down. I couldn't catch it, I couldn't keep up, I couldn't think. Everything kept slipping away from me. Everything left me behind. No, Tyler, please, don't leave me behind. I love you, I need you.

Tyler was next. However reluctant they were to take me, it made no difference. I needed to go. I would've driven myself if they'd trusted me to transport myself without trying to commit suicide. Overprotective, maybe, but not entirely off.

His tombstone was pretty. There was a rose beside his name. The rose is a symbol of love. He always called me love. At least, that's what the burial guy told me it was for. I'm not so sure how he knew that, but he did. It was kind of creepy.

I'd brought a white rose for Whitney, a yellow one for Mike, and a red one for Tyler. With a glistening, rolling tear, I knelt down and placed the red one on the grass. And I sobbed. I sobbed with everything I had. Everything that had built up inside me watered his grave, saturating the dirt till its fill. Mom and Dad turned away, pretending not to watch, pretending to understand but secretly questioning my sanity. How could I love such a monster?

I could ask them the same thing. How could they love me? It was all my fault.

Once my chest was done heaving and merely trembled, once my eyes were finished spilling, I wanted to leave. In fact, that was the one thing on my mind. I didn't want to stick around and watch the rose's rich, ruby petals fade to a dull maroon. I didn't want to watch it crisp up and whither and die, flimsy in its ripe age.

I didn't want to see what our love had become.

Instead, I leapt nearly headfirst into the backseat. But I did leave the headline beneath the rose for the wind to sweep away of its own accord.

Love kills.

So, what did you think? I know, it's kind of weird, but whatever. Please review. Thanks!