Of Love and Death

"I've killed her. I've killed her. I've killed her. I've killed her. I've killed her."

Like an Ice pick jammed straight into his mind. Tearing and piercing soft tissue.

The act of death had been gruesome and gory leaving a bloody Mess. A Tangled form that had been Mary. It was the embodiment of Horror. She would have wanted it that way.

Jack did not smile at his filthy hands, nor did he cry. He stood with a certain solemn indifference to it all. It might have looked deranged, psychotic, but to Jack it all made sense.

He had loved her, more deeply and more truly than any man ever could . He had been her lover, learned every intimate curve and line of her body. He had been her companion and learned every intimate curve and line of her soul. She had been his. Could there be something more complete, more intimate than to share her death? To kill her in a fashion that had mirrored her life?

Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth, pooling on the ground. Jack watched as it slowly started to clot. His mind gained peace. No dreams of glory filled his head, no rush of adrenaline to feed a craving, not even vague whispers of revenge against a tormented child hood. Only peace, and a feeling of completion. The final intimacy, the step every day people never took, Forever they would share that.

"I've Killed her," He confessed.

"Yes I know," She whispered.


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