It started off small. But it was the reason I killed him.
Smiling sheepishly over our drinks, he had a bashful boyish charm that awoke something maternal inside. I thought I hated the opposite sex after the last guy but this one seeemed completely different. He seemed vulnerable. His self-deprecating humour warmed me, and I knew I wanted to be with him.
From that first date we began to spend time together. Carefree and young, we didn’t need a structured plan and went with the flow, enjoying each other. I fell head over heels in love.
But it didn’t last long. His jokes that had warmed me now seemed to rub and grate against me. The way he thought he was too skinny, the way his hair poked up, the way his laugh hiccupped – these things he joked about, now became beacons when I saw him. His body looked bony and haggard, his hair was like the feathers of a tattered bird, and that laugh sounded as if he was choking, and it echoed loudly around places. All of these things seemed to distort and he became grotesque, a caricature of who he was before.
Bent over me, his spine now a naked tree with sharp limbs, his hair a black oil slick brushing the arch as his laugh choked and spluttered around the tunnel, this horror I had loved was now a monster of his own making. I slit his throat right there, and left his body behind, now in the shape of that bashful boy I had loved before.