We all lust for someone we shouldn't. We are electrified by their presence and consumed by their mystery. Someone you burn to touch and hold. The thought of them hurting, by any hand but your own, makes you murderous. You know that if they were with you, the world would tip from its slanted place in the chilling shadows and it would be illuminated and warm. It would pull your soul from the bubbling tar pit it is slowly sinking into and give it a new and vibrant purpose.

I thought I found it once. I was cleansed through her laughter and bent to her will. In the end, she was nothing more than an insulting lie. Her thawing heat turned out to be a glowing prod meant to brand me a fool for bowing to her prowess.

It was by my hand that she perished and it had been done so tenderly, romantically. I poured all of my love into her and sent her off in a mesmerizing manor. One of my last memories of her will forever plague me, beautifully. She was lying so peacefully on the thick, smoky rug in front of the fire place. Her dark hair painting a river from her pale, still face, and the white flowing dress I had carefully chosen for her, cradled every part of her enchantingly.

Yes, she was vision as she sunk into the water, my flashlight illuminating her dead, blue eyes in the calm darkness of the night. Her dress swayed around her as the chains and weights lead her in a dance to the lake bottom 400 feet below.