Because my darling Eleanor is comprised of such exquisite beauty, I often ponder her. Today I'm pondering drenching her in the blood of this man she dared suggest to marry.

I will find it quite amusing I know that I will. I stand at my window watching her fake a smile as he says something no doubt ignorant.

She doesn't smile so wide when she's genuinely pleased. It's more of a soft acknowledgment, a tilt of the lips, those lips, like natural lipstick, brown on top, soft pink color on the bottom.

Eyes closing a bit with a smile, a true smile.

I'm grateful at least, she'll live her days in loveless misery, pining after this man.

"You know they say love is wanting someone to be happy. Even if they're not with you." Liam calls behind me, his feet up on the sofa eyes on the ceiling.

I frown. "What matter of moron told you that?"

He shrugs. "I'm unsure. Shouldn't true love be as such, though?"

I scoff. "I don't want her happy without me. I want her tears to flow like river at the thought of my loss."

"Shouldn't that indicate that you don't love her and merely want to possess her?" He points out, his body floating off the couch.

My brows dip. "What are you doing here?"

Liam sighs, pushing himself off the ceiling as he gracefully floats down to the couch.

"I was wondering the wretched streets when I thought, why not give my dear friend Alastair the privilege to do a good deed."

"So you were homeless and thought you could freeload off me."

"Precisely."

I sigh, closing the window bathing the room with light. I snap, putting a fire in the candles, crossing the room, and standing in front of my painting.

"This is beyond creepy, by the way. Such attentions are considered criminal where I am from," Liam remarks from behind me, staring at the painting of her.

"I must go to her," I say softly not moving, picking up my brush. "Shower her with affection. I could set a proper picnic date at the shop."

Liam raised his brow, as I dip my brush into paint.

"Then do it." He encourages me.

I sigh, softly making a stroke on the canvas. So easy. Just tell her.

I glance toward the window once more. Such an obsession I have for her I could draw every pore every mark on her skin from memory.

Every waking moment is drowned with the thought of her—nay, the coveting of her.

I smile. "I shall let her go. Release her to him, along with my foul dispositions. Just as long as I ruin her first."

• • •

Eleanor's eyes fluttered away from mine. I lean in a bit closer. One bite. It's all it would take, to subdue her, sweep her away to my home.

I press a kiss to her forehead. She closes her eyes.

"I'm to be married come this Sunday."

"Can a man give you the wedding you'd deserve under such short notice," I look down. "You're not...you're not with child are you?"

She pushes me. "Asshole."

"You know I don't mean to offend, Eleanor I'm simply confused. What a proper dress what about a venue, these things are important —"

"Important to who? You? Why is my marriage of such import?"

Why? Because she doesn't deserve a slapstick wedding held together by desperation and the knowledge she could do better.

"You must demand better," I take her hands between mine. Her eyes dart away.

"Alastair..."

"You are a reader. Doesn't he know that? Yoh want the opulence of novels and he's giving you the opulence of swine—"

"I'm not young anymore,"

"Not youn—" I lick my lips.

I could do with allowing him to marry my Eleanor. And why, I...even said I would be satisfied if she lived a life of misery. However, this is too much.

A day Eleanor has dreamed of, imagined in her mind strung from the words of novels, tied together by a soft wanting.

For him to squander it in a single bound is unacceptable.

"Do you want this? Or is because of the shop?" I press, pushing closer.

Eleanor's dark eyes find mine. I brush her temple. "You deserve the world, Eleanor. All the majesty of the stories in this room. You deserve it. Don't let it be taken from you."

Her lips tilt up, pressing her hands to my face. "Stop selling me false dreams, Alastair. You could've given me, what you say I deserve. But you didn't."

I hold her wrists, I close my eyes, leaning into her touch.

Her soft, warm hands, fingers always wounded from paper cuts. I kiss the inside of her palm.

I have no response.

"Life must go on. Only stories have such a definite ending," she whispered.

But she's wrong. Human lives do too. It's called Death.

The end.