"Please, please stop!" 

There's something broken in me, I think. A normal person would see her now: with eyes rimmed red and swollen from the abundance of tears, her eyelashes damp and clumped together, and they may pause in their act. They may feel remorse. Why, then, does it make me happy? Why do I feel such a sense of joy to see the way she shivers and begs, pleading with me to let her free? 

Why does the blade feel so light in my hand, and why does the sight of her blood spilling through broken skin excite me so? Her screams are better than the Beethovens symphony no.3, and that's quite a tall order. I know this isn't normal. What I don't know is how to stop. 

She's my third one this month. My eighth this year in total. I used to space them out, go for the people who wouldn't be missed. I'm escalating and I know it. This is my addiction. Watching as she incoherently sobs, as she valiantly struggles against the monster taking her life... this is my heroin. 

When it's done, the rest comes on autopilot. The body is disposed of, the weapons cleaned, the evidence methodically wiped until there's no trace. I'm home in time for supper. My kids sit at the table doing their homework and my wife is at the sink, cellphone at her ear while she updates her best friend on how perfect our life is. She spares me a kiss, and I realize her lips don't taste as sweet as they used to. 

"Hey honey, your plates on the table. It should still be warm. And please talk to your son, he got detention again today." 

"Wha-- mom! He totally deserved it, I told you!" 

He's getting more violent lately, and part of me wonders if he's broken too.

Well, I suppose... everyone has a dark side on their own, don't they?

My skin caught on fire at the way you said my name. 

Just kidding. Is that what you wanted me to say? We're too different, you and I. You have the spark of life in those eyes, with an eagerness to please in the upturn of your lips. Like me, your smile says. I almost wish I could obey. Yet, herein lies the issue: where your fire burns bright and full, my ice spreads cold and thin. 

Oh, it's not your fault. Your fire is beautiful, and it will grow and burn without me. 

I am not broken, nor am I damaged. I adore the chill that seeps deeper within me than most could fathom. I appreciate that my environment is difficult for others, in that it assures me only the best for me can stand to stick around. No, this doesn't make me special. This makes me my own. I can live unapologetically, and so can you. 

I admire your tenacity. Your love for life and your heated energy can be quite infectious. It's a wondrous thing, I admit. It simply isn't meant for me. 

So I'm sorry, sweetheart. My skin will never burn for you. That's alright though, isn't it? I can admire your flame from afar. I can appreciate the beauty of something without yearning for it to be mine. The world needs more of that.