My Favorite Character in the Book is Death.

I weave through the bustling students, my trail a thread, me the needle. Them the fabric. My loafers tread lightly on the face of the concrete, I have grown accustomed to going unnoticed in appearance and sound in this place. In deed.

Group of three. Frat boys. Pair, she is definitely too large. Administrator. My eyes dissect the throngs of school-goers, their bodies clustered in cliques and heads in books and faces alight with youthful bliss and shoulders adorned with athletic gear-and alone. Near the library. I quicken my pace steadily so as to not appear in a hurried jaunt.

My heart palpitates as the familiar adrenaline of the hunt scurries through my veins like a passionate fire. Scarlet and golden flames dance hauntingly through me, smoke billowing and twirling in my mind as I weave and sew, weave and sew through the crowd. I sniff and straighten my collar, exhaling the smoke of the fire, easing my giddy delight.

"Hello, there," I breathe, proposing a debonair smile.

The girl, platinum tresses limp over her hunched shoulders, peers up at me, holding in place the page of her novel. She shifts to gaze at me more squarely, adjusting her position on the bench. A leaf flutters by.

"Hey, can I help you?" Her gaze is intent, her eyes gleam in the iridescent light of the afternoon sun. She swallows, the ivory skin that flows over her neck jostled by the motion. A spark of desire swirls within the basin of me.

"I just happened to see you here alone, and I wondered if you could use some company?"

Appearing flustered, she twines hair behind her ear, her sleeve revealing fading scars on her wrists, fleshy and coarse. Fresh.

Swiftly she readjusts her burgundy sleeve, countenance turning into a hazy undertone of pink.

"Sure. I don't mind."

At ease, I slide next to her, my blood rushing.

"What are you reading there?" I inquire, my fingertips grazing her arm and stroking the binding of her book.

The subtle undertone now a scouring hue on her cheeks, the girl sputters, "Oh uh The Book Thief." She conveys the cover to me, her eyes searching mine warily.

"Oh yes, a wonderful read. Great author. I must ask you your name?" I drape my arm over the back of the bench, gentle as my arm graces her shoulders, gentler still as she flinches.

"Elizabeth. And uh what about you?" She fidgets with her book, opening it to its crisp, inked pages, and shielding its innards from the sun afterwards.

"Simon, a very generic name, " I chuckle, glancing at her, letting my chortle roll over her.

She grins, still uncertain, "It's a nice name."

"Why thank you," I retort, and I trace the thread work on her sweater, her shoulders stiffen, her breath catches.

"You know I was thinking we should get coffee sometime. We have the same taste in books apparently, and you like my name," I face her as she smiles and shakes her head, strands of hair fall loose in front of her terra-cotta eyes, " so all the more reason to get to know each other a little bit better."

"Well, I dunno, my schedule has been very busy lately," unconsciously stroking her wrists, she exhales.

Damn. Desperate, I search for something, something else. Her tote bag. A psychology textbook.

"Oh and you're taking psychology, what a coincidence. I'm actually majoring in clinical psychology." I tug on the ropes of connection, frantic.

"Oh wow really? That is awesome, I just have to take the basic class this semester. But that's really cool."

"Yeah I've always wanted to dive deeper into the subject and pursue it. If you have any concerns or anything you could always ask me. So would you be down to get coffee tomorrow maybe? After your psychology class?" Come on come on, the ropes are slipping, snapping and slinking to the pavement.

"I actually have only about an hour in between my psychology and British Lit class. Maybe we could go after my last class?"

She offered a solution, the rope conglomerates into a divine scheme, and my tension falls limp. Seamless.

"Oh yes, yes sounds good to me. What time would that be?"

"Around four?" she breathes heavily, and I realize I am leaning in far too close. I clear my throat, catching notice of her breasts and smile.

"Perfect, let me have your number so I can text you then."

Fumbling, she hands me her phone and I text a simple "Hey :)" to myself, my fingers slick across the screen.

"Perfect, "I breathe crossing my legs as I again peer at her bosom.

"I am very glad to have met you, Elizabeth, " I offer her my hand, and she shakes it anxiously, her fingers dainty and small in my palms.

"I'm glad to have met you as well, Simon. I will look forward to our coffee date. If it is a date, sorry I didn't mean like-"

"It is a date, " I intercede, not letting go of her hand and tracing the canvas of her face with my eyes. I am well aware of their hue and magnitude, how my cerulean gaze penetrates her every freckle, crease, and residue of mascara, hovering beneath her lash line. I analyze her countenance, stroking her skin with the brushstrokes of my eyes. And in her muddy eyes there a specs of cinnamon that I see. And pain. But, most importantly, there is attraction.

"Elizabeth," I breathe, suddenly so aware of my heart beating and this smoke welling into ebony billows once again, yelling for release.

"Yes?" Her eyes haven't left mine, and her lip quivers as she speaks.

"You have lovely eyes."

That night, I looked up all the details of The Book Thief, repeating to myself Liesel Meminger, Liesel Meminger, Liesel Meminger. Seems like a fascinating war novel. A hidden Jew and a foster girl and lots of stolen books. And the narrator. Why, he is death, himself. I couldn't possibly forget that.

"And I really like how the author makes death curious. Like, he could easily take interest in anyone on Earth, but he is so invested in Liesel's life, and it allows the reader to get a sense of death as more than a heartless entity, but one who witnesses human progress and pain and joy and uh yeah," Elizabeth quiets, seeming to be embarrassed of her exuberance, she sips her latte, avoiding my eyes.

"My favorite character in the book is death," I begin, fumbling to recall what I had rehearsed, "he is the perfect narrator for the time period the book is centered around. Since so many were dying during WW2, having death tell the story is so appropriate and I just really like the book. You will have to tell me how you like it when you complete it." Harmonious, the lies bled through my teeth like smooth melodies, streaming onto my coffee cup, puddling onto the table, staining my elbow scarlet, but unseen to Elizabeth.

Walking back to the campus with her, the dying sun splaying its purple, rose, and baby blue intestines across the skyline, I embraced her tentatively, and she waves as she saunters to her dorm. Taking a left turn, I find my car and drive to my apartment, three blocks from the college I don't attend but had been for three years, as I had presented to Elizabeth. Laying in the ocean of my sheets, bare chest tickled by the spinning gust of my overhead fan, I picture Elizabeth, her hair, how it crumpled over her shoulders, how her eyes were kind and rueful in one, how her wrists were always concealed and always rubbed by her tender fingertips. I thought of her lips, how she had one dimple on the left, and how her teeth were almost flawless except for a discoloration on her bottom row. And I thought of her heart, how it had pounded its fists against my own when I tugged her into my arms. And I thought about what I was going to do. What I had to do. Because the demons were wailing their hellish calls, and they were hungry, clawing their way from deep within my soul. And the thoughts, God, the thoughts. Again and again, only to silence when the spilling began.

It was the fourth coffee date, and each time we sat at the table facing the street, the window a stage upon which the happenings outside the cafe pranced. And each time, I walked with Elizabeth to her dorm, exchanged cordial goodbyes and retreated to my quarters, my bloodlust trailing behind me, looming.

This instance, however, we had coffee and then we strolled to my apartment. Elizabeth strolled up the concrete steps to my door, smiling at me crookedly, still grasping her latte. The usual, some milk, and lots of the pink sugar packets. She always piled them at the end of the table, scooped them up as we left and gingerly tossed them away, small morsels of the sugar still clinging to her fingers. I closed the door behind us, it groaned and clicked, and I spun around when Elizabeth pulled on my jacket sleeve.

"Simon, can I use your restroom?"

Dazed, I nod, pointing, "To the left, help yourself."

The haze of the smoke within me blinds me, stampeding and overwhelming my senses, I rush to the kitchen, rattling dirty dishes and yanking open a chestnut drawer. Smirking in the dim overhead light I clutch my cleaver, and tread near the bathroom, across from it. The toilet flushes, the sink sputtering not long after. The fiery buzz consumes me, and the release I have lusted for for weeks, itches at me, knowing I shall scratch it in due time.

My breathing becomes rapid, and my brows crease as I envision her positioning when she exits and my needed angle. And the doorknob turns slowly, Elizabeth emerges and jolts, taken aback by my presence. Cleaver still secured behind the barricade of my back, I lead her to the living room, her eyes intent on me, cheeks flushed. I urge her down on my leather couch, stuffing the immense knife between two pillows that lean against my spine.

"Is everything okay, Simon?" Elizabeth's eyes are wide with a bitter mixture of curious terror.

"Yes of course," I whisper and lean towards her, pressing my lips against her cheek, warm with excitement. She inhales sharply as I trail to the nape of her neck, "Lay down," I whisper into her hair.

And then I hack at her so vigorously, she doesn't have a moment enough to even shriek. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth in a gaping "O," pools of blood and chunks of red reach from her lips and dangle on her chin. I cry out as I swing and drag swing and drag swing and drag, the smoke within me settling and the hole in my chest, dwindling. Heaving, I behold my mess. My hair drips with sweat and Elizabeth's warm blood and innards. I blink fervently and a chunk of her small intestine falls from my lashes. Her corpse is a masterpiece of oozing guts and gore, contorted tendons and muscles, and red. So much scarlet and crimson and purple-red and apple-red and red tinted with white slime and red plastered onto white bone.

I drag her mangled form from the couch, tossing its puzzle pieces into garbage bags, and I make two trips to my truck. Her lifeless mess thuds into the back of my Chevy, and I hastily start the engine. I'll return to campus next week more than likely, or as soon as the demons start bellowing again.

Swing and drag.

Swing and drag.

Swing and drag, the motion is familiar to my muscles, the cleaver known to my grip.

And as I pull into the clearing surrounded by stoic trees, the dirt familiar to my tire treads, the rehearsed lines of the first coffee date with Elizabeth resound in my mind.

"My favorite character in the book is death."

"My favorite..."