That Deep Shit I Can't Live With(out)

Curiosity To BeHold Sacred

"Wanna play a game, Puddin'?", she asked because she knew him too well to believe he'd be asleep. She turned her head up a few inches to see directly into his eyes. Those luring eyes, sparkling with dark tension.
'He enjoys this because he knows I am mad and he certainly doesn't care about it.'
Maybe this curiosity she found in his eyes- so very remarkable and reminding her of her own darkness- had been the first thing that made her fall for him. Which indeed she hadn't ever planned on.
He'd fascinated her from the very first time they'd met, years ago.
And he knew how to toy with feelings, was so skilled in luring her into this venomous possession, which so she believed he intended and grew.
She knew he didn't love her and he never would and when she first started to obsess with him she was fine and eased about being his property.
If she'd only be appreciated and treated respectfully. So far beyond comparison her ill mind was broken between her own narcissism, her primordial anxiety about being alone and receive treason and her subliminal seeking to experience greatness that when he chose to ignore her by which he insulted her admiration and trust towards him, she emerged in irrepressible hatred against him, infecting her obsessive mind with the need to punish his fault.
She'd now dream about slitting his throat and showing him how much of a mistake he had made by not granting her the appreciation she deserved.
He had drawn the disfavor of the very goddess of destruction.
She obsessed with the thought of his eyes filling up with the realization about his miscalculation.
He had messed with a goddess and he was to regret.
"You're so wonderfully bonkers", he replied as a wide smile spread on his face, just maniacally underlining his both soft and harsh beauty.
"What're you up to?", he asked and the darkness-soaked curiosity in his expression once again assured her dependance on him.
"Murder", she whispered cheerfully, tilting her head just completing the cliché of creepy. His smile didn't vanish or alter and she just knew this was the moment and he deserved everything that was coming for him. Because he was real and she trusted his eyes, sparkling with danger and addictive. He wasn't who he thought he was but neither was he unworthy of revenge.
It was a feeling of calmness and clarity she felt her whole body fulfilled with.
Not the anxious palpitation and perverted urge she was used to feel in a situation like this. Because it was different. This wasn't a hopelessly crazy girl commiting murder to find an insane equivalent of vitality, to feel alive. He was about to receive a godly punishment.
She flexibly climbed on top of him, sitting up straight to express her domination.
The curiosity in those luring eyes. Maniacally, but not in love. Not appreciating what he saw, just raw curiosity what she was about to do next. Not a hint of irritation or fear. Just curiosity in his eyes. Because she didn't matter enough to him. She wasn't a toy or even a remarkable part of his life. In his eyes she was naive and lovesick and would do anything he demanded her to do. Even kill herself. In his eyes she saw a picture of herself being a broken girl. Fascinating and unique, hopelessly crazy but yet interesting. And he was right with every single thing.
It was just that he poorly didn't get the whole picture. He was so secure about knowing and understanding her that he never even considered he did in fact not.
Because she was twisted and about so much more than he saw. A will-less toy until she wasn't. Unpredictable and underestimated in her dangerous way of thinking. You should never concentrate on a single flame when playing with fire, especially not if you don't understand it's nature.
She kissed him softly like he taught her to, allowing his hands to feel her skin. Both being rather cold they seemed warm to one another but the cold in her soul split to fire. As the kisses got more eager and he had failed to read her insane mind she had reached for the hidden knife so low-key, he couldn't react fast enough and as he realized what she was up to it was already to late to defend. Physical strength or knowledge of martial arts doesn't matter in a moment of pure abruptness facing an opponent too unexpected to comprehend, even for a guy like him.
She had stabbed the knife in his side so sudden and deep, feeling his body scare stiff, consuming the shock in his eyes fulfilled with satisfaction as she slowly pulled it out again, just to regard his face. A flat breathe shuddered his chest and no words were necessitated nor even existed to clarify the dead time scenario.
He didn't cry. Nor did he smile or attempt to talk or even get confused. His face just mirrored his very thoughts and emotions and plainly displayed realization.
All the trouble of her telling him everything and him not understanding anything concluded into absolute comprehension and it painted a picture so aesthetically in her mind she felt the temptation to release her affection in the shape of a single tear of joy, touched by this feeling of sacredness and purity, this meaningful greatness and the new sensation of someone truly seeing her, all of her. Someone getting the whole picture and understanding her disclosure for the first time. She stopped being invisible and incidental the second she stabbed him with this knife she was still to hold in her hand. Bloodstained and of central importance to her showing and expressing her true self succesfully.
Alien to any guilt and guided by the exhilerating new achievement she seized the knife tighter and jabbed it's blade deep inside his chest, missing his heart on purpose at first but as the stabs got steadier and quicker she became oblivious to that matter and just kept going until she was completely covered in his blood. Gasping for air and letting a small giggle escape her lungs.
How fast the tide had turned.
He used to own her but due to not appreciating her she flashed into action and took his life. Now she owned him.
And she was not to make the same mistake he did and underappreciate his.
At some point between the stabbing his heart had stopped beating, his lungs had dropped motion and his eyes had lost their sparkle of dark curiosity to turn dull. Objectified and dead. A metamorphosis so aesthetic and beautiful as one can be.
Flawlessness as a present wrapped in admirable atrocity. Gifting him with the only thing to be everlasting in it's infinite and truly poetic perfection: Death.