The serial killer's weakness

Seven

It was cold tonight. Wisps of frozen air blew past her lips, dancing around her face in glowing plumes. Hands in my pockets, I nodded at her, not knowing how to say 'fuck off' nicely.
"What's this?" She asked gesturing broadly at me, "we just killed a man, would of thought you had at least something to say."
That 'fuck off' was getting really difficult to keep locked in my throat. It would be a waste of time to kill her now, she didn't love me. I wanted her at the point where she's jump of a bridge at the wave of my hand, where she would plunge a knife into her stomach, twisting it and pulling it out before repeating the action ten more times.

"Bye," was what I managed, compared to what I wanted to say, it seemed quite acceptable.
"You're being strange," she muttered, fiddling with her frayed jeans. I hadn't really noticed how strange her outfit was until now, I guess I haven't really noticed anything beside her eyes, hair and that fucking pouch. Strangely patterned patches covered her jeans, black stitches randomly holding together holes that I assume had been accidental. Black and white striped suspenders held up the baggy pants, hooping over her shoulders and covering parts of her loose white shirt.
"You're the strange one, killing with a serial killer, wearing rags-"
"They're not rags!" The volume of her voice surprised me and I had the urge to cut out her vocal cords, teach her not to yell at me,

"Strange," I repeated, digging my hands further in my pockets. My shoes scuffed against the sidewalk as I turned away, I needed to polish my bone collection.
"When should we meet up next?"
"Huh?" My neck ached in protest when I swivelled it around to look at her.
"Next person," was all she said. It suddenly dawned on me. She thought this was going to be a regular occurrence. That we would skip happily through meadows, arms linked, hatchets swinging in the breeze. That she would be there helping me cut up the next girl's pretty skin, she was mental. "There is no next person," my voice must have been harsh as she flinched back slightly, fingers curling around her stupid suspenders. She looked like a child. A blood covered, insane child. "You weren't even supposed to do anything tonight, you're lucky I was in a good mood,"
Her bottom lip quivered and I rolled my eyes. "That won't work on me darl,"

"Did I do bad? Do you hate me?" A particularly strong gust of wind blew past us, sending her knee length hair flying. Strands ghosted around her face blocking the tears that fell and the rest of it curled around her like a tail. I wanted to say yes, I wanted to tell her she was humanity's worst, that her blood would soil my blades, that she was 't worth the effort of killing her. Yet, watching her tears glow under the night's full moon, I couldn't. She, in that moment, was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

"No," I whispered out, eyes fixed on hers. A watery smile spread across her face, her lips slightly trembling.
"You're bad at lying," I hadn't even realised I had lied, yes it's true I hated her, but I didn't want her to know. Yes I wanted her to love me, wanted her to ruin herself, but, I myself, couldn't do it, I couldn't destroy her. "I know..." I walked off the sounds of sobbing and traffic fading out behind me.

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