He sat there and watched me dress. I could feel his eyes burning into my back, but I didn't care. In fact, I slowed my pace, placing each layer of clothing onto my body carefully.
I caught his smirk in the mirror, and it was reflected on my face. He hated me, I could see it in his eyes. It fascinated me, and made my heart beat faster.
I turned to face him, and watched as his eyes slowly made their way up till they were focused on mine. I raised an eyebrow, which seemed to amuse him. Pulling out a chair at the table, I sat opposite him.
He didn't speak - he didn't need to. I lit a cigarette, and we sat there in silence. Time passed, but I couldn't tell you how long we were sat there. Time didn't matter. It was just him and me. Me and him.
Maybe we were crazy, I don't know. Is it right to hate the person you love? Yet, it was the hate that strengthened our relationship. We lived for that passion of distaste. We longed to see the look of distrust in our lover's eyes.
After a while, he got up and came back with a glass. He placed it in front of me, and I laughed. It was a simple act, but too easy. I picked up the cup and tipped it upside down, watching the liquid soak into the stained carpet. He didn't flinch. He probably knew it wouldn't work.
Our relationship was too complex for a simple murder.
I lifted my leg, and stroked my toes along his calf. I bit my lip and I knew he wanted me, just as much as I wanted him.
I stood up, and moved to sit across his lap. His lips tasted bitter. Rough. Alcoholic. His beard scraped across my skin, and his breath stroked my cheek. His hands were on my hips, his grip tight.
I dug my nails into his neck, my lips never leaving his. I undid the pin in my hair to let it hang loose round my face. I brought my hand back down, holding tightly onto the pin. One, quick, prick. His neck was pulsing, waiting for it.
His hand suddenly caught my wrist in its grip, and he pulled his face from mine. His glance moved from the pin to me.
I climbed off him, unconcerned.
I walked over to the window, and stared out to the dark street. Morning had came, yet even the sun didn't want to witness our display. Even the sun was afraid, but I wasn't. Neither was he. This was a game, and we were both eager to play.
"You've killed the plants." He said, breaking the silence. His voice was deep, and seemed to echo around the room. I smiled.
There was a plant pot on the window sill, with a lone flower placed inside. I didn't know the name of it - I didn't care. The fading pink petals were crumpled and browning. Everything in this apartment was in fact.
It had died a long time ago, along with our consciences. Maybe we'd lost our minds. Have I? Have I lost my mind? Surely you must know, with your psychologists at the ready. Never mind. I don't care.
I picked up the flower, and cradled it in my palm. I lifted it to my nose to smell it, but the fragrance had gone a long time ago.
Suddenly, the clay pot was flying across the room but he ducked just in time. The pot smashed against the wall. Bits of the plaster fell to the ground.
"What a shame. It was such a pretty vase." I said. Then I shrugged.
He came to me and lifted me up against the window, his lips on my neck. I let him kiss me, I knew he didn't have long. Or I didn't. Not that it mattered. Only one hand was round me. The other was on the latch of the window. Too messy. I might have only broken a bone from the fall.
Then I pushed him away, and he stumbled backwards.
"You're looking a little sickly, my love." I said to him, taunting him.
We both did. Our skin was pasty, and our eyes were dark and sunken. In our dance for our lives, we'd begun to neglect ourselves. But what did food or sleep matter, in this game we were playing?
It's strange how much I love him. I will always love him. My partner, my lover, my manic.
He opened a cupboard and pulled out a bottle. Inside, there was some kind of clear liquid. Alcoholic. I knew the name once, but it's escaped my mind now. He drunk it in large gulps. Half the bottle disappeared, and he cringed as he placed it onto the side.
I picked up the bottle, pressed it to my lips ... and then put it back down. He raised an eyebrow, questioning my choice to abandon the drink. I think he knew then. He laughed. He clapped.
He congratulated me. And I laughed with him. I had won.
He stumbled to the windowsill, and took one last look. He shook his head, and noticed the flower. Picking it up, he came to me and placed it in my hair. It was as dead as he would be soon. It was fitting for the occasion.
We lay on the bed, and he stroked my face gently. My eyes were stuck to his, and what a brilliant shade of grey they were. They looked at me with love and with hate and I was lost.
I was lost, and so was he. I had won, but who would congratulate me once he was gone? Time passed. Hours. Days. I don't know. His hand stopped moving, and his breath stilled. His eyes never left mine, and his heart never left too.
And now dear officer, you can take me anywhere. I have already won my game, and my love is dead.
Kill me if you must, for it does not matter. My manic is dead, and I killed him. It was so simple, so easy. He should have known.
That is our story, officer. You can take me away now.
The next colour shall be Cardinal.