You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. Franz Kafka couldn't have said anything that you could relate to more than this. His love was the knife that would kill you, there was nothing new in knowing that your life had an expiration date.

Billy was intense—intense like the flames of hell, burning you alive. The strange thing was that you liked the pain, the pain of being his well-kept little secret—the only person he could ever be himself. You always supported him like that, monstrous or not.

You knew everything about his plans, the killing, all the revenge. You could stop him, but did you want to? No, no, you didn't want that.

He was beautiful that way. Psychotic, drunk on his own revenge, so vulnerable just to you—no one would ever see him the way you did. Maybe, the devil was perfect, maybe, you considered him perfect because Billy is his image.

If any of your friends knew about this, then you knew you'd be called insane, idiotic, dumb. But, what did it matter? They didn't know what it was like to have a pretty boy come through their window every night—because he just couldn't stand pretending to love someone he, actually, hated.

No one could know about you and him. Sidney was his perfect little girlfriend, you were the other someone in his life—the one he'd be with when the revenge was over. He promised you.

Like death, your heart twisted with hatred and jealousy every time you saw them together in the school hallways. Just took a deep breath and deal with it—knowing that he'd crawl to your window at night, every night.

Said and done. The knock on your window echoed, it was almost immediate for you to get up and open it, who else could it be but him?

His dark eyes seemed darker now—you just knew he had done something without him having to say it out loud. “I thought you were planning to lock me out,” he gave a bitter laugh, stomping into your room as if he owned the place—hands caressing your tense shoulders. “You wouldn't do that to me, would you?”