Devotion. Utter, complete, all-encompassing dedication. That’s how your love for Simon could be described. Locked away in his house, you had stopped counting down the days of your stay after the first five months.

That’s what you thought, that your love was reciprocated with the same intensity that you had developed for him. After all, you were his little lamb, pure, beautiful; he just had to have you, no?

And as the days, weeks, then months, and finally years passed, your biggest fear had started to come alive: he’d grown tired of you. It had been fun, the endless chasing, the screaming, the crying, the shouting. Now, you had simply grown too attached, thus boring.

He just had to find a way to get rid of you. He started to act colder around you, barely giving you the time of day, almost never coming back to his own home, which, in a way, had become your home, too. And he’d started to loathe it, loathe you.

So you stood there, a crimson stain growing onto your pristine, white gown. You almost couldn’t feel the blade he had pressed right into your guts. Nothing was like the sharp pain in your chest, as if your heart was physically being ripped out.

“Am I making you feel sick?” You had asked, a tremor to your feeble, breathless murmur, your eyes trailing over his figure as he held you in his lap, blood-stained hands trying their best to mend the irrevocable consequences of his own actions.

Oh God, what had he done? His pure lamb, turned into a sacrifice, a last act, just to be loved.