Red's Heart

There was once a girl. A girl with hair as black as a raven’s wings and lips as red as blood. And she was beautiful.

I called her Red.

Not because of the bright red hood framing her delicate pale face, or those luscious blood red lips. Nor was it even her real name.

The girl lay sprawled in my arms, her nails attempting to clutch at my bare skin, but she was weak. She was dying. The overwhelming aroma of her luscious blood filled my senses to the brink. I had to hold my breath to keep my gasp of pure pleasure from rumbling from my throat.

The beat of her heart, once strong and proud, was failing. The beating becoming irregular and faint. I could almost imagine its beauty. Its hard pumping dwindling to mere desperate breaths. She didn’t have long. The bullet was deep in her chest. Too deep to save her. Too deep to restrain myself.

Crimson pooled out from her, staining the white snow. Painting that glorious picture I had only dreamed. But it was slow. It was clean. And I had no part in it.

“This was fun,” she mumbled almost incoherently. “Right Wolf?”

I only nodded. Watching her as her life seeped from her body. And I waited.

I called her Red because she fed my desires. She fuelled my wicked obsession and instigated my sinful lust. Like a poison she had my lucidity set on a course of devastation.

“I love you, Logan,” she whispered, her fingers carefully tracing the knitted heart dampened by the snow.

I called her Red. My Little Red. And tonight, I would finally eat her heart.

“Sweet dreams, my Alice.”