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Description
I throttle you. It's wonderful, intimate. Your pulse pounds against the tips of my thumbs as they dig into the dip of your collar bone. I feel your skin moving over your bones as my fingers grip your neck, feeling your spine. The gape of your mouth, the way your arch your back beneath me and grip my wrists. I might worry that you would break them. But I am overcome with a kind of calmness, a simple ecstasy that leaves me fearless, worriless, totally free to enjoy the sensation of your demise.

I can hear the heels of your boots scrape against the wood behind me. Your knees hit my back but it is a futile attempt, as you are unable to build up the impact required to shift my weight so heavy on your hips. The arching of your back is half a similar attempt to move me, half a desperate thrust of your senses so screaming for the air that you need. Your head tips back, your mouth still wide, your lips pulling back involuntary. Your hat finally dislodges from your head, giving your dark hair a rare glimpse of sunlight. I imagine what it must feel like, the cool air that wafts through the window and brushes your scalp. Refreshing, chilling even. I cannot see your eyes now, past the glare on your aviators. But they must be wide, shocked, scared, in pain.

I observe, in an almost sluggish manor, as your hands let go of my wrists, no doubt as red as your neck right now, and grab my lapel. Your struggles are weakening, and you can do little but tug them so the button comes off and they fall open. My cigarette case falls first onto your stomach with a small thud, and then with a clatter to the floor. You still try, in vain, to achieve something with my jacket. I think how easy it would be to bat your hands away. You cling to my lapels, like a drowning man to a shard of his ship, desperate not to sink below the icy surface and into the deep, dark depths where things only found in children's horror stories lurk. I find myself smiling down at you as your head flops back to the floor. You no longer have the energy to keep your neck arched, and once again I can see your eyes. They are dull. But still filled with emotions. Pain, yes, and possibly fear too, but confusion rather than shock. And a desperation. You're searching my face, knowing you have little time left. Your lips move. I realise you are trying to say something. Your grip on my coat is slacking as you try to force the words past my hands. I am intrigued, amused, wondering what you could think to say in the moment of your death. I let my hands release just enough air. The beginning of a word manages to get out before I feel your chest try to gasp and I return the pressure. What were you trying to say? Who? Why? The light in your eyes is going out. Your hands have dropped from my lapel. And yet I still feel your pulse, though weak, your eyelids still flutter on open eyes, your body still twitches beneath me. I smile, the kind of expression one might use on a frightened child before you explain to them there really is no other way and shoot through their skull.

I can think of nothing to say, however. There is nothing to say.

I do not know why I made my way up here. I do not know why the sounds of battle faded in my ears the moment I laid eyes on you, hunched by the window, so focused on your task. I do not know why my gaze could not leave the back of your neck, why my fingers itched, why my mouth ran dry and I slowly advanced upon you. I know why, in that moment when I had you on your back, staring up at me in anger and bewilderment, I let go of your wrists and grabbed your neck as tightly as I could. The way your eyes widened and realisation dawned in them, yet still in utter confusion. You knew I was your ally and yet I was slowly beginning to unravel your life like I did with the hideous scarf I so disapproved of. You did not understand. You still don't understand. I, on some levels, do not understand. But I did understand, the moment the thought- nay, the impulse, invaded my mind that it would be so wonderful, so sensual, to have you struggle beneath me while I watched the life in your eyes go out. The feel of your skin against mine. Watching you gasp and struggle, writhing like a wounded snake as its attacker approaches with slavering jaws.

I open my mouth. I cannot let you die without even a little understanding of why I-
your pulse. Where is your pulse? I press my fingers deeper into your neck, searching, suddenly frantic. My nails cut into your skin, blood welling in the slits. It's gone. Your eyes are half shut and their dead pupils stare at me. You are not staring at me. You are gone. Your corpse watches me and finds little amusement. You have what you wanted, now what will you do? it asks. I find myself... shocked. I don't understand anymore. I thought I did, but... where is the pleasure of this kill? There is none. The calmness has gone, the smooth and deadly ability to watch you watch me as I kill you. To see the look in your eyes... why did I not see it before? The betrayal. The pain, it was not physical. It was not from my fingers as they dug so far into your neck. It was the belief, the knowledge that I was betraying you. I was no longer a comrade, a brother in arms, a companion on long nights when the enemy did not sleep and your scope was what stood between us and blood in our beds.

Why... why have I done this? I don't know anymore. Your body, the red rings around your neck. It all seems so wrong... what blood lust caused this!? Common sense made me fear the first day I laughed in delight at the feeling of my knife slipped with ease through the clothes and flesh of an unprotected back. But time made me forget, made it seem... as if it was right, to enjoy the kill, to want more and more and to see each enemy and curse that they could not all be yours to take. But... but everyone, they enjoy the kill, they laugh and boast. Yet they do not turn on men they call friends!

With a strangled cry I throw myself away from your corpse. My stomach is heaving in a way I have not felt for years. Suddenly I have to rush back, I have to gather your body in my arms. But you're limp. Why can't you push me away, stare at me in amused confusion and ask me what am I doing? Why can't you shake me away from this nightmare? I fall back into the corner. You're so heavy, such a weight, pressing down on my chest as I cling to you. Why... why... I'm the one asking the question now. Why. Why... why you... why me... why this...

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. You're pressing down on me, my chest, my lungs. I shut my eyes and tip my head back. I let you weigh down on me. But it's not enough, not enough like my hands on your throat. But your hands are limp. They won't help me now. There's only one way to get what I want. But I can't do it, no, it has to be you. It's what I deserve. I look to your waist, quickly finding what I need. The metal is cool- it's been in the shade, but the handle is an even temperature, the wood soaking up the heat of the day. The long blade glints in the sun. I've seen you wield it so efficiently before. My eyes are still shut as I press it to my throat. I can imagine your hand on mine. It's warm. The leather of your glove is rough and worn on my skin. My gloves lie discarded by the door. I swallow. The blade breaks the skin.

"I don't know why," I whisper. I can feel the shift of your hand on mine and suddenly you jerk the blade sharply across my ne-

Description
I throttle you. It's wonderful, intimate. Your pulse pounds against the tips of my thumbs as they dig into the dip of your collar bone. I feel your skin moving over your bones as my fingers grip your neck, feeling your spine. The gape of your mouth, the way your arch your back beneath me and grip my wrists. I might worry that you would break them. But I am overcome with a kind of calmness, a simple ecstasy that leaves me fearless, worriless, totally free to enjoy the sensation of your demise.

I can hear the heels of your boots scrape against the wood behind me. Your knees hit my back but it is a futile attempt, as you are unable to build up the impact required to shift my weight so heavy on your hips. The arching of your back is half a similar attempt to move me, half a desperate thrust of your senses so screaming for the air that you need. Your head tips back, your mouth still wide, your lips pulling back involuntary. Your hat finally dislodges from your head, giving your dark hair a rare glimpse of sunlight. I imagine what it must feel like, the cool air that wafts through the window and brushes your scalp. Refreshing, chilling even. I cannot see your eyes now, past the glare on your aviators. But they must be wide, shocked, scared, in pain.

I observe, in an almost sluggish manor, as your hands let go of my wrists, no doubt as red as your neck right now, and grab my lapel. Your struggles are weakening, and you can do little but tug them so the button comes off and they fall open. My cigarette case falls first onto your stomach with a small thud, and then with a clatter to the floor. You still try, in vain, to achieve something with my jacket. I think how easy it would be to bat your hands away. You cling to my lapels, like a drowning man to a shard of his ship, desperate not to sink below the icy surface and into the deep, dark depths where things only found in children's horror stories lurk. I find myself smiling down at you as your head flops back to the floor. You no longer have the energy to keep your neck arched, and once again I can see your eyes. They are dull. But still filled with emotions. Pain, yes, and possibly fear too, but confusion rather than shock. And a desperation. You're searching my face, knowing you have little time left. Your lips move. I realise you are trying to say something. Your grip on my coat is slacking as you try to force the words past my hands. I am intrigued, amused, wondering what you could think to say in the moment of your death. I let my hands release just enough air. The beginning of a word manages to get out before I feel your chest try to gasp and I return the pressure. What were you trying to say? Who? Why? The light in your eyes is going out. Your hands have dropped from my lapel. And yet I still feel your pulse, though weak, your eyelids still flutter on open eyes, your body still twitches beneath me. I smile, the kind of expression one might use on a frightened child before you explain to them there really is no other way and shoot through their skull.

I can think of nothing to say, however. There is nothing to say.

I do not know why I made my way up here. I do not know why the sounds of battle faded in my ears the moment I laid eyes on you, hunched by the window, so focused on your task. I do not know why my gaze could not leave the back of your neck, why my fingers itched, why my mouth ran dry and I slowly advanced upon you. I know why, in that moment when I had you on your back, staring up at me in anger and bewilderment, I let go of your wrists and grabbed your neck as tightly as I could. The way your eyes widened and realisation dawned in them, yet still in utter confusion. You knew I was your ally and yet I was slowly beginning to unravel your life like I did with the hideous scarf I so disapproved of. You did not understand. You still don't understand. I, on some levels, do not understand. But I did understand, the moment the thought- nay, the impulse, invaded my mind that it would be so wonderful, so sensual, to have you struggle beneath me while I watched the life in your eyes go out. The feel of your skin against mine. Watching you gasp and struggle, writhing like a wounded snake as its attacker approaches with slavering jaws.

I open my mouth. I cannot let you die without even a little understanding of why I-
your pulse. Where is your pulse? I press my fingers deeper into your neck, searching, suddenly frantic. My nails cut into your skin, blood welling in the slits. It's gone. Your eyes are half shut and their dead pupils stare at me. You are not staring at me. You are gone. Your corpse watches me and finds little amusement. You have what you wanted, now what will you do? it asks. I find myself... shocked. I don't understand anymore. I thought I did, but... where is the pleasure of this kill? There is none. The calmness has gone, the smooth and deadly ability to watch you watch me as I kill you. To see the look in your eyes... why did I not see it before? The betrayal. The pain, it was not physical. It was not from my fingers as they dug so far into your neck. It was the belief, the knowledge that I was betraying you. I was no longer a comrade, a brother in arms, a companion on long nights when the enemy did not sleep and your scope was what stood between us and blood in our beds.

Why... why have I done this? I don't know anymore. Your body, the red rings around your neck. It all seems so wrong... what blood lust caused this!? Common sense made me fear the first day I laughed in delight at the feeling of my knife slipped with ease through the clothes and flesh of an unprotected back. But time made me forget, made it seem... as if it was right, to enjoy the kill, to want more and more and to see each enemy and curse that they could not all be yours to take. But... but everyone, they enjoy the kill, they laugh and boast. Yet they do not turn on men they call friends!

With a strangled cry I throw myself away from your corpse. My stomach is heaving in a way I have not felt for years. Suddenly I have to rush back, I have to gather your body in my arms. But you're limp. Why can't you push me away, stare at me in amused confusion and ask me what am I doing? Why can't you shake me away from this nightmare? I fall back into the corner. You're so heavy, such a weight, pressing down on my chest as I cling to you. Why... why... I'm the one asking the question now. Why. Why... why you... why me... why this...

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. You're pressing down on me, my chest, my lungs. I shut my eyes and tip my head back. I let you weigh down on me. But it's not enough, not enough like my hands on your throat. But your hands are limp. They won't help me now. There's only one way to get what I want. But I can't do it, no, it has to be you. It's what I deserve. I look to your waist, quickly finding what I need. The metal is cool- it's been in the shade, but the handle is an even temperature, the wood soaking up the heat of the day. The long blade glints in the sun. I've seen you wield it so efficiently before. My eyes are still shut as I press it to my throat. I can imagine your hand on mine. It's warm. The leather of your glove is rough and worn on my skin. My gloves lie discarded by the door. I swallow. The blade breaks the skin.

"I don't know why," I whisper. I can feel the shift of your hand on mine and suddenly you jerk the blade sharply across my ne-