Wind.



Dark.

Night.

Sky.



He sits.

He listens.

He waits.

He sits in a dark, near empty room, furniture turned over this way and that, the remains of a memory not quite cleared, not quite forgotten. And it wouldn't be forgotten for some time.

Not until he settled things once and for all.

Leaned against the grey brick wall, he holds he head in one hand, not quite insane, but not quite together either. He continues to look out towards the window, large holes left behind as a reminder of that memory.

He clenches his free hand.

He remembers.

Dark and elegant, he carried a smile that brought them all to him; innocence lost, with a touch, a glance.

Life was lost as well, their eyes dulled by morning come.

Stories told he once had pale green eyes, like the leaves upon a breezy morning. He was smart, he was charming; he played the game of trickery quite well, all had said. He could have any girl he wanted, and he got them all; he danced, he wined and dined, he doted on them as if they were the world to him. They hung around his neck like the finest designer jewelry, sparkling and radiant, their lives complete.

Only to wind up dull and shattered upon the floor, dressed in hues of white and red, his smile being the last thing they saw. It was the same smile that brought them to him like moths to the flame, so beautiful, but so deadly. And it wasn't until they touched the tip, and saw it for what it really was, that they realized they had been played like knights on a checkerboard.

Checkmate.

He kinged them, smiling, cooing, holding their hands, telling them sweet little lies between his teeth as they cried and screamed in ecstasy.

Silence.

The breaths die, his smile widens as their pupils shrink back, their lives, their souls, slowing slipping away. As the light fades from their eyes, he runs his hand down their face, using the other hand to remove the dagger lodged in their heart.

Bleeding love.

"And this was how," townsfolk told the curious, "His eyes became crimson. His eyes turned red because the blood spray got into his eyes and made them red. And he killed so many, that the blood never washed out."

Such was how the people of the town were; stupid to Hell, ignorant of the truth. They pranced through life spreading this, spreading that, with no inclination to question and seek the reality.

Such was the injustice of the human race.

He grits his teeth in the present, his born-with crimson eyes continuing to eye the window, counting the holes in the window.

He wondered how many holes were left in her when they were through.

Dainty, pretty, and dressed in lace, she was beautiful, she was perfect. She swayed him in a way no other girl did; her smile, her voice awoke something within him; something that had been asleep the longest of years.

Compassion.

He began to soften, he began to care; he still danced, he still wined and dined, he still doted on her, but it was in such a way that he had never done it before. And her name...how it spoke volumes.

Caitir.

Pure, unsullied; this was what she was, and yet, she chose to be with him, filthy, sullied him. The town was unsure of what to think, but they didn't dare tell her of him, out of fear he would come for them.

Truly pathetic.

And it was here that he sat, and pondered why it was now that they came, that they decided to stand up against him; they were an angry mob that had hibernated their feelings. Perhaps they were waiting for someone like Caitir all along, to soften him, to get him...

...to let his guard down.

No.

It couldn't have been a set it, it wasn't a set up. She would have never...

...died.

He raps his free fist against the back wall, a small dent engraved in it, a reminder of what he had done, and the fate that was about to unravel.

They had come with guns, blasting the walls, blasting the whole house, they came in and attacked without mercy as he fought them off. By morning's arrival, the body count was staggering. He had repelled them for the time being.

But not without a price.

Caitir laid on the ground, looking like she was swimming in a pool of her own blood. The bullets had certainly hit someone, but it wasn't him.

It was her.

The rage grew, his screams echoed, flooding the room with all the things he ever wanted to say to her, with all the things he wanted to change...just for her.

Unfortunately for him, the world had a cruel sense of humour, and he didn't like the joke. Not at all.

Crack!

He jerks his head up, hearing the sound of footsteps upon glass. They have returned to finish what they started. Slowly, he rises, turning to face the wall. He glances at the blood marks on the wall, his eyes moving to the dent his fist created earlier.

Slowly, he turns his around to face behind him, looking out the window. There they stand, guns and other weapons ready, smirking at him. They have him in their sights.

The moonlight bathes the world, and it shines through the holes in the window; one splotch of light hits his eyes perfectly, the red shining brilliantly.

He reflects again. He reflects on what he had, what he lost. He reflects on the girls, the townsfolk, Caitir.

Realization.

His smiles.

He chuckles.

His eyes go wide.

The crowd stands back, a certain sense of dread coming over them. They shudder, unsure of what is about to happen.

The last thing they remember is a pair of brilliant, crimson eyes, reflecting year's worth of lies and bloodshed.

Wind.



Sky.



Rain.



As he licks the blood from his thumb, he glances at the masses in front of him; bodies strewn aside, tossed this way and that, much like the furniture in the house.

He thinks again.

A girl.



Dainty.



Shattered.



No, he didn't do this for her.

He did it for himself.