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He was the right man for me. Mother told me otherwise. That was why I put her in a box. She denied our love, it was a bond that could never be broken. Father was the same as mom. So I neatly put him in another box next to mom. This love had simply gotten me obsessed. I took pictures of his perfect face, his perfect figure. He was a talker, a charismatic man. We talked to each other many times, and even he had gotten the liking of me. Yet whenever I watched him go, it saddened me.

I wanted to be just like him.

My obsessive thoughts of him were written down into a plan, and this plan weaved into the fabric of reality. Here was the plan, I would find him at the bar where he usually went for a drink. I didn’t need to greet him like a stranger for we have talked many times. He smiled, and we began conversing. The topics ranged from the alcohol he was drinking to the girls that he liked. The last one had my fingers aching to hit something. When he finished… his seventieth shots of vodka, I offered him a ride home. He wouldn’t be able to get in his car anyway, it was supposed to be stolen by a gang of thugs.

He was laughing and telling me horrible jokes the entire way. I only laughed and kept him entertained for his own sake. Then, out of nowhere, he was regaining conscious. “Hey,” he slurred, “this isn’t where my house is.”

“We’re taking a shortcut,” I said.

“Oh,” and then he went back to telling me about the time he got fired from his last job.

When we were at my house, he turned to me and said, “This isn’t my house.”

He looked out the window like a little boy seeing snow for the first time. There was a claw hammer on the side of my seat, away from his view. I picked it up while he was distracted. I raised it as high as it could reach in the car and swung it down directly on the back of his head.

Thump!

He was unconscious. I exited the car and opened his door, I quickly picked him put so his blood wouldn’t cause a stain on my car. His crow hair brushed again my shirt. Dragging him into my house, and then my bedroom, I placed him on my bed. Heading to the bathroom, I grabbed my skinner’s knife out of my cabinet. I touched the tip of the blade, accidentally cutting myself with it. I grunted, licking my thumb. This wasn’t much. I walked back to my bedroom, seeing that he was still out of it.

His hair was ruined by the blood seeping out from his wound. His fingers twitched from time to time. I breathed in deep, and smiled. This obsessive thought had turned into reality. Just like him. I ended the pain by jabbing into his skull. He wouldn’t struggle if he was dead. This was where my work began. I cut through the skin, but not to the bones itself. I cut it gently and carefully, not to tear any part of the skin. I left the whole face in blood and muscles. I got out my stitching box and stitched the ends of the skins together.

Then it was finished. I checked if I had a bald cap anywhere in my room, in which there was. I put that on, and then the newly made mask. Heading to the bathroom once again, I looked at the mirror. What I didn’t see was me, but rather, the man that I loved. I smiled, saying, “Now you’ll be with me forever, just like the others.”