The Story of Blood and Roses

I was selfish when I let them take her from my arms and tie her to the chair. I had wanted nothing more than to shut her up and send out the signal for the rescue team to save her.

The answer to my question would lead to my downfall. I would kill myself out of love for her, or kill myself from the abhorrent self-loathing that would overcome me if I realized that after all this time, I loved myself above everything.

And as I would pull the trigger, I would hear her laugh.

I would remember that I had no one to slide me a new gun when my bullets ran out.

Standing on the blood-soaked street, between corpses I had shot, I would run to her and embrace her. She would stand there, stoically.

I could imagine the pain that would spread throughout my body. I would smile, though. I would smile as she stabbed me in my back. I would fall on the street and look up to her. I would spill my blood to worship at the feet of my Goddess.

I snap out of my thoughts as I remember that it can never happen.

She would have never let me touch her in the first place.

Suddenly, the image of us embracing flashes through my mind. I stare at the ceiling as I remind myself of the moment when I held her by the throat and forced her to look at us in the yellowed reflecting surface of the glass window. We looked the image of perfection—meant to be, everyone would say if they saw the picture. And I had recognized that the first moment I saw it. We were meant to be.

I remember the times when I would just hold her at night. She didn't like to wear clothes when she went to bed; at least that was what she told me. I think it was just because she wanted us together, nothing keeping us apart. Sometimes I would slip inside her wet warmth and just revel in the moment. Being a light sleeper, she would wake instantly, and sweetly smile at me.

I was not a religious man, but as I moved inside her, I would bury my face in her hair and whisper reverent words of worship of her.

Once, she asked me why I could never keep away from her for long. I remember being smug about it. She kissed all the wickedness out of me after that.

"I like the holidays," I had told her. She furrowed her eyebrows and peeked at me from under her eyelashes. Her eyes were droopy, and her elbows were going to give away soon. I gathered her in my arms and laughed softly into her ears. "Baby, if your left leg is Thanksgiving, and your right leg is Christmas... I want to come between the holidays as long as you want me to." She had slapped my arm playfully and then snuggled in closer.

"If you had used that pick-up line earlier, I would have wrapped my legs around your waist and taken you right there." I had chuckled into her hair and waited for her to fall asleep in my arms again.

I feel myself hardening, and consider rubbing one out. I wonder what I would imagine.

Would it be her smart mouth working out the Caesar's box, or would it be the scene where she slipped me the gun and then ran out to take out a dozen men on the roof of the abandoned building? I could imagine the time when she let me put a bullet on her clit and help her ride out her orgasm... Heck, I could just imagine her crawling towards me like the predator she was and pouncing on me.

I gripped harder, but then felt myself softening.

"Necrophilia... that's what it feels like!" She was bordering on hysteria when she said that on the rooftop. We had kissed for the first time there. She gave me a piece of herself as she submitted to my advances. I still can't believe that we tried to be romantic when we were surrounded by corpses.

I sigh as I stare at the ceiling and wonder if it will ever get better. Would it always feel sacrilegious to touch another woman?

I shudder as I remember her face. It has been months since I last saw her, and I feared for my sanity. Her glorious face had twisted into a nightmare and haunted me in my sleep. She compelled me to stop trying. Resistance was futile.

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