I stood there, frozen. Every muscle, every bone was completely locked in place. My eyes emitted an ice cold stare. The blood was pooling around my feet and he was deteriorating in front of my eyes. His breath was coming in short painful rasps and his face was slowly draining of color. I couldn't help but shiver at his skin tone. It had moved far past white, or pale, and far into transparent or nonexistent.

His hands had weakened over his wound and were painted a dark shade of scarlet. He had been trying to pull the knife out for quite some time now, but it had been embedded into his spine. I still hadn’t moved. He took several deep breaths, and with what looked like the last inkling of energy he had he let his hand thud to the pavement. He slowly uncurled his maroon tinted fingers and placed one firmly on the pavement he steadily dragged it across the pavement in three odd patterns, but I was focused on his face, it was full of hope. Which was much more than I could say for mine. A single tear broke the ice that had glazed over my eyes.

I looked down to see what he had worked so hard on, what he wrote with his last ounce of blood, and what I saw brought be back several inches. I kept walking and walking. I studied his body from far away to see that it had gone completely still.

I ran. As fast as I could, with no clue where I was going. All I knew was that I had to get as far from possible from those awful, utterly hopeless and innocent drawings. I left them back in the dark street. Those three scarlet “magic” numbers…

9-1-1.

I jolted awake. Many people who just had a dream about killing their boyfriend would probably start crying right now. But I am not many people. Me? I start laughing hysterically and can’t stop.
I glance over to my nightstand to see the knife right where I left it. And I knew what I had to do.

He would pay for what he did to me.

For making me crazy about him.

Or maybe just crazy.