I watch it as it sleeps beside me, it's chest rising and falling steadily. I watch and I want. I amend, I need. I don't explain. I don't bother explaining to myself because I will only be talked down by my...conscience? By something, never the less. And I've waited to long to let this go. It has always had such a strong will. If you tell it that it can't do something, you might as well have commanded it to commit the act. It has been told that throughout the whole of its life. Doctors said it wouldn't survive. It did. Parents said it was too weak to play basketball. It did. This tells me that it is also physically strong, so I may have to watch out. With all the years I've spent with it, I should know it's strength in a fight, but I don't. Its fire has never been released on me. I am the only one who will never be burned. How I love the fire that is its life. How I love knowing that I can control it. It is mine and always will be. Mine to do anything I want to. The sweat staining its face proves that. It calls what we did to produce that sweat "making love". I don't care what it calls the act; just how doing it proves my complete control over it. But it's fire makes both of us sweat. And that will not be tolerated. Somehow it has, though. But that will not happen any longer. I am strong, it is weak, that is what I am out to prove. I relish my control over it for a minute. I am out to tame it's fire. Make it burn out. Because I will not tolerate it's strength any longer. Before morning, it will be cold, gray ashes. How else would one explain my obsession with the ocean? Only water can put out fire and that is what I am out to do. That is my sole purpose, what I have been building up to all these years. My hands dance over the blade hidden under my pillow, a dance of joy. No, not yet. My mind drifts to the dream, relishing my thoughts. How in this dream, my hands performed this same act, caressing the blade, tracing over the intricate patterns carved on the handle. Long, slender fingers pull it out from hiding, as they shake. Not from weakness, but from anticipation and disbelief. My mouth soundlessly formed it's name, soundless not from weakness, but because this was not reality. It's eyes open and a smile plays across its face. I can't contain one of my own, but not due to any weakness. Only to make it sweat. So the sweat will stain its face and prove my power. It cocks its head, confused. Do I have something planned? It asks. It must think that I am going to do "that" with it again. No, of course not. The act doesn't matter to me. I know the control I have. But I can lead it on that way, because I have the strength to do so. My arms wrap around it, pulling it close. The hand holding the knife slides against it's neck, and it shivers at the cold touch. I press the blade against its pulse and it gasps, realizing. It's voice shakes, asking questions that don't have any answers (AN: The midnight glancers and the topless dancers...). A small slit is made through his skin, not the vein, and I hiss in pleasure. It cries out in pain. My senses relish this new feeling and the realization that he is too afraid to fight. I bring the blade back, and cut deeper. It screams and blood flows faster, spurting. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that I am in such a state that I could "make love" to it, if I so desired. I dig the knife in deeper and sit back to watch the fire smolder until it is no more. The blood flows thick and smooth, like silk. Pure. Beautiful. My beautiful. I see tears running down its face as it pleads with me to save its life. Tears on its neck. In. It's. Blood. Rage consumes me. It dares to taint the strong blood with weakness. It dares to ruin my pleasure. The one thing I hadn't counted on. It is making the blood, the blood! It is making the blood impure! Corrupting it! Water flows from its eyes, diluting the blood, drawing away the strength. I growl deep in my throat and raise the knife. If the weakness flows from it's eyes, then they should be no more. It screams as one falls from its socket, leaving a trail of blood across its cheekbones. The second one glances over it's mouth and it gags, knowing for sure what the object was. Without tears to cry, sobs still come from it. This I don't mind. It only shows the weakness. I hear a gurgling noise and blood flows from its mouth. Then a rattle and all is still. There is no longer a pulse nor a heartbeat. As the fire burns out, the body becomes cold. There is nothing left to warm it, but my own heat. I am not planning on keeping that there, for fear of reigniting the fires. I dip a finger into the pools of blood that have gathered on the sheets and its body. With that finger, I begin to trace a pattern on its chest. When I am finished, I sit back to admire my work. Four letters spelled out in a graceful script like a wedding invitation. W. E. A. K. I smile as the dream ends, and file it to the back of my mind. I know I cannot work like that now, for it has already been done. Repetition shows weakness of the mind. But maybe that last step could be played out. I thoroughly enjoyed it and I congratulate myself for that last touch. I pull the knife out from under the pillow and hold it up. No, dawn is breaking. And I cannot do this in the light. Light taints the strong blood that should flow. I sit back to think of a new plan, gently cradling the knife against my thigh. I will do it another time, for I am strong enough. I will watch the fire burn out.