The smell of bleach and flesh mingles with the coffee brewing in the kitchen. He holds her cold, stiff hand in his, as the bleach gives her skin a paper white complexion. He knows no one could ever understand just how deeply he loved her. He knows no one will ever understand why it was imperative he kill her.
He closes his eyes and sees desperate gasps, he sees heated glances and feels electric contact. Lips red like the devils flesh, peer through his consciousness, tearing every inch of his willpower to shreds. Faceless children peer through the darkest part of his mind, begging for a name.
He opens his eyes. Her hair floats about her, eyes closed, her breasts heave no more. They will call me a monster, his thoughts declare, he will be publicly crucified posthumously. He doesn’t care. He moves to the kitchen and pours himself another cup of blessed coffee. The first sip burns his tongue and again he is pulled away into a memory.
She’s biting his bottom lip, with an urgency he can read in the shallow breaths, crashing like waves against his face. He tastes blood, it makes him even more rigid than he ever dreamt possible. His physical yearning matches hers. Clothes are thrown with little care of where they will land, and then he is inside her. Trying to exercise both of their demons with every thrust, sweat gleams across both of their naked bodies. He feels her come and she pulls him with her into ecstasy.
The glass shatters and coffee soaks the wall where he hurled it moments before. He returns to the bathroom, where she was once vibrant and alive she is now colorless and dull, yet still, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. He pulls the drain and the water begins its slow descent.
He hears her cries, hears her plead with him to leave her apartment. He hears himself scream about promises made in the dead of night, entangled in love, she had sworn to die with him. He crosses the room, wraps her in his arms and tells her she will… she will die with him. His hands find her throat, and her fingernails find his face. He stares intently in her eyes as her face slowly turns blue. He wants her to know he loves her, he says, and that he will see her again soon. Her hands claw less and less. Her eyes shine no more.
He pulls her body from the bath and carries her down the hall to their bed. He picks out an outfit that he remembers from last Valentine’s Day, and lovingly puts it upon her limp frame. He lights a pine tree scented candle and dims the lights. He moves into position next to her on the bed, puts her head under his right arm, and his left arm over her stomach.
She turns to him and kisses him softly awake. She lays still and cold next to him. She pulls his hair in earnest release. Her chest is motionless. She comes and screams his name into the night. The pistols steel is as cold as her translucent flesh in his steady hand. He raises it to his mouth, whispers meet me by the shadow of the moon, and sends himself tumbling after her into oblivion.