I hate Stanley.

I hate him so much, I hated him more then anything, especially now. I had to admit, though, some of that anger was directed at myself, for losing my temper. I was supposed to be calm, and rational, but Stanley felt the need to piss me off. Everyone has a breaking point, and that was mine, I suppose.

No matter. It's not like it made a significant impact, despite my little slip up. Death wasn't permanent, not for Stanley. Therefore, even if it was my own hands around his neck, squeezing all of the air from his lungs, he would still come back. The end is never the end.

However, even I had to admit that the sound of him gasping for air was almost... euphoric. 

Not in a lustful way, get your mind out of the gutter. Perverts.

Now, this didn't mean that I wanted Stanley to die, or get hurt. He was my protagonist, after all, but punishments were required. Clearly, since they weren't working, something more extreme would need to be done. Yes, yes, that could work. In theory, at least. Knowing my luck, Stanley would be so stubborn that it wouldn't work.

Whatever. It didn't hurt to try.

Sighing, I finally paid attention to the stinging sensation in my cheek, and the disgusting wet feeling dripping down it. Stanley had put up quite a fight, but he would never be stronger then me. Still, he managed to scratch my cheek, and I couldn't remember the last time that I bled, but I hated it.

I grabbed a tissue, looking at my faint reflection in one of the monitors and wiping the blood away. Yet, it kept coming, and I saw myself scowl at my reflection. I hated it so much.

I hated that man.

Oh, but, God, did I love him.