They say you will walk past at least 10 murderers in your lifetime, or so I’ve heard.  What about loving one? Are there even statistics for falling for a murderer? I guess people don’t really calculate the odds of it, because, well, that’s just dark. What does that say about me then?

            My mom told me once after the topic of love was brought up, “Love kills so be careful.” It’s ironic how spot on she was. Though I have never been comfortable with the word love, for it’s a word too flimsy nowadays, thrown around like a beat-up Frisbee that is too soon discarded. In this case, though, I guess I can say love, because no one would voluntarily like a murderer. Only something as potent as love could hit you so hard to want to be close to such an awful person.

             To be fair, James didn’t intend to ****, at least I would hope so.

            “It just happened, I didn’t mean to”, he sobbed.

            The tears on his face truly did convince me, enough not to say anything, at least. The blood on his shirt should’ve scared me,  but instead his distraught face captivated me. In the moment, all I felt was calm.
          “James” His names came quickly to my mind, oh how I loved the way it rolled off my tongue, the name of a murderer.

          “I’m sorry.” A look of shock was plastered on his face, trying to make eye contact with me, he seemed too preoccupied with the blood on his hands (I guess you can take that in more ways than one)

        “Go home, take a shower, It’s gonna be fine.” He was always a blunt person, never one to use soft words. Something I always admired about him, his ability to not care how people responded to him. I leaned more to just say what people want to hear. We were a good fit that way.
          “Okay, okay. Go home, take a shower, it’s gonna be fine.”
           What a cute smile.
             Now most would be concerned if a murderer smiled at you, but I was smitten with the two dimples that appeared. It was almost as if nothing had even happened.  
             When he left, my thoughts wandered back to when I had first met him. As a senior in high school, life had been hectic, but meeting James at my first real job seemed like the best thing that could’ve happened. Like most high school romances, it started with awkward glances and short text messages.
           Hey.
             Heart pounding, and waiting for a response.
             typing…
             Oh, no. He probably hates me.
             Hey you.
              Dead, I’m dead. He’s just the cutest.
              typing…
              Oh no, that was probably meant for someone else. He’s  probably gonna tell me that I need to stop texting him and that no one likes me.
              Wanna hang out on Saturday?
               What? This Saturday? We’re officially married now.  Wait, what do I say? I’m probably gonna sound like the biggest loser ever.
               Sure!
              Wow, sure with an exclamation mark, I am the worst.
              Great!
Officially dead, he’s the best.  Great with an exclamation point! We are legit married now. I wonder how he is going to propose.
             That Saturday had gone well, and I was convinced that I was deep in like with him. As it came to be, a year later and here I am saying that I love him. You could say that it went pretty well. He came to my graduation and I to his. He proudly showed me off to his friends, boasting that I was the smarter than any of them, and then we went to his house and watched Star Wars.  
              A smile on my face and our fingers interlocked, he looked at me at my graduation and whispered into my ear, “You were the prettiest up on the stage.” His face was so genuine and sincere; my heart could barely contain itself.
           When  I went to visit my grandma for a month, he sent me a letter proclaiming his love. In a time of texts and emails, it was such a cute surprise. There was nothing sappy written, for we weren’t that type of couple, the kind that is just romantic ***** and such,  but at the end he wrote,
             Love, James
          ,and it made me smile so much. It was such a small gesture but yet meant so much to me.
            Now can you see why I forgive him so easily? There were no signs, nothing to indicate that he would snap.
       The morning after James killed, I lay quietly. A man came to visit me.
        “James didn’t mean to, I promise. He told me, I know it’s true. Please don’t be upset with him.” But the man didn’t want to hear it.
“How could anyone be so careless? How could this happen. She was so young and so beautiful, why would anyone do this?” He didn’t want to believe me, but I knew that James hadn’t meant it. I knew that in his heart he was truly sorry.
            I didn’t see James again until the end of the week. In a room full of people, he pushed his way up to the front to see me. His face was pale and tears ran down. I wanted so badly to reach up and brush away his pain.
          He leaned down and whispered “I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. I didn’t  mean to.” His eyes glanced down to my neck. They had put makeup to cover the bruises from his hands and the **** on my temple from hitting my head on a railing.
           “It’s okay, I still love you” my words never made it, trying to comfort him, but soon he was gone and I was left alone again. I could see my mom crying again.
           She had warned me, “Love kills.” But I didn’t take it as a warning, more as a promise. They say you pass 10 murderers in your lifetime, but I feel in love with one and I never did make it past him.

By the book
society should flow
if it doesn't
when
it doesn't
someone has to correct it.