The vile stench of fresh blood burned my nostrils so aggressively I leaned over and hurled. His blood was on my hands and he was dead. He, as in the guy I had loved for nearly a decade. He was gone and so quickly too. I feel like crying, but there's no use crying over spilt milk. What's done is done. What's gone is gone... I can't bring him back, it's too late now. All I can do is sit next to his limp still semi-warm body and replay the horrific details of what I had just done. I had this overpowering urge to just end him, because maybe then I'd finally be free of him and his temper. I'd be able to breathe calmly again. I wouldn't fear for my life every single time he walked through our house doors. Because he'd be gone forever, and he wouldn't be able to lay a finger on me ever again. My Lucifer would go back to where he came from. But nobody said killing was easy. Nobody said I'd still love a guy who was nothing less than a monster. But I do, part of me will always love him and what we could have been. There's always what ifs, but to me he never even tried. So why am I crying over a man who wanted me dead?
Why am I crying at all?