When I was young, people always told me I would be a heartbreaker. I don’t think this is what they meant though.

My head burned, and my eyes watered. Wiping away sweat, I look down at my hands. They’re covered in a sticky deep crimson goo. Blood dripped to the dirt, and clots formed making the process slower.

Beside the puddle was the boy, with a rusty knife beside him.

I glanced at his face.

The weight of the blood pulled a strand of brown hair towards his brow and dripped.

His blue eyes were glossed over, and his skin was pale and cold.

Yep, I was sure he was dead.

Beside him was a heart. It was unharmed, unlike the rest of the boy, as if it were carefully carved out.

Thinking,

I picked it up, and left the boy for home. I would come back later to give him a proper burial.

My cabin was far off down the road, in an empty clearing with no neighbors for miles.

It really was a beautiful place. The grass was healthy and tall, tall enough to hide any secrets I kept within my home.

The wood was light and rusty, giving the place a warm inviting feeling that I could use to help welcome others in.

Finally Arriving home, I open the door and walked to the kitchen.

I plopped the heart on the counter and grabbed a small hunting knife I found from the murder site, and then carefully sliced into it.

It was quite interesting seeing the most important part of a person. It felt strangely powerful.

It was always my favorite part of the process, ripping out the hearts of what others would call heartbreakers, and then keeping them for myself.

My second favorite would probably be the chase, and luring the men into where they would take their last heartbeat.

Smiling at the thought, I pop the heart into a jar and carefully place with the rest of the collection.