I remember the day I saw her like that. Her body limp, lifeless, thrown across the bed like a meaningless doll. But her body was twisted, mutated. Red. Red blood. Covering her floppy carcass from head to foot. And then I saw where it was coming from. A deep gash in her side, the thin red juice trickling down onto the previously pristine, white bedsheets. My heart stopped as I gazed at her, useless, hopeless.

Behind the delicate mask of crimson, I could barely make out her disfigured face, her eyes almost as wide open as her mouth, which looked as if it were a fish gasping desperately for air. She looked like she was in agony as her soul took its time to drift out of consciousness.

Sweat trickled down my face. My hands shook and the knife dropped from my aching hands. I was the one who had plunged the blade into her fragile frame. I was the one who dragged it across her body, tearing her skin, allowing the blood to flow out, escape onto the carefully arranged rose petals on the bed.

At that moment, I heard a knock on the door, a cacophony of shouting, screaming at me to let them in. I hurried over, ignored the blaring sirens and blazing, blue lights I could see out of the corner of my eye.

I smiled to them as they pushed me down, secured my wrists together. I let myself be dragged out of the hotel. And then I laughed.