He was a killer; he hated Valentine’s Day, the day of “love.” It was sickening to think that people could fall in love on some random day—his birthday. I mean, out of every day, his birthday had to be Valentine’s Day. His parents abused and neglected him, beating him until he bled. He wanted to make someone suffer just like he did, but not just anyone—couples, couples who took advantage of the so-called word "love." He would go around tormenting couples, killing them with no remorse. That is, until one day he saw you. At first, he was just going to kill you like everyone else, but he was curious. He stalked your patterns, your routine. He thought he would be bored by now, but still, after three months, he couldn’t bring himself to kill you. So, it was a long shot—risky even—but he decided to make you his. While you were in your room, he hid in your closet until you noticed him. Once you opened the door, you screamed in pure terror. It excited him the way you squirmed and tried to run away from him; it made him like you more. You ran to open your bedroom door, but he was quick to follow behind you, and he slammed the door shut, closing it quickly so you couldn’t leave. He was so close to you; his breath just barely crept through his mask against your skin. He was finally able to touch you, to feel what it was like to love someone. He couldn’t wait to make you his own.