It had been days and within that time he had killed three women.

One for each day.

Like an addicted ***** he mangled his victims bodies while they were still alive, ******* them and torturing them simultaneously.

I would have fun with him.

In the park he buried his dead,
each night digging
and refilling
a mass grave in the mountains.

I watched him
hidden among the thick sylvan night
relishing in the death all around me,
and still mourning the deaths that should have been mine.

There deaths would have been pleasurable,
gentle,
and natural.

It pained me to step on the leaves
discarded by the proud oaks and maples.

“I will not discard you.”
I whispered to the wind
intending for my words
to drift toward him.

I walked towards him,
my footfalls silent
with only the crows to give me away.

He turned peering into my eyes,
which held the look of one, just content after a meal.

“My turn.”

He woke to the pain of nails being ripped from his toes.
I enjoyed his agony,
danced to the music of his cries
like a pagan priest during a ritual.

I knew in that moment I loved him.

He and I were alike
with only the exception
that it was my job to **** and not his.