The Predator

Menace. Gore. Viscera. I could paint a fucking masterpiece with the images inside my head. If I had a canvas big enough, if I had enough skin to stretch over a frame, I could make something magnificent—something holy.

But she wouldn't like that.

My little bird, my fragile, breakable girl, she wouldn’t look at my art the same way I do. Wouldn't trace the edges of my masterpiece with those soft little fingers. Wouldn't smile at the carnage and call it beautiful.

And yet.

I’d kill for her.

I’d burn the world to cinders if it meant she'd never have to dirty those hands of hers with something...