First Chapter: RED...[em]

In the room, on a red wall hang Rosalyn, and the scent from the petals of the flowers fills the room but you are not here. On the velvet sofa as the dreams that turned to ashes quietly I watch a local movie.

The reason to laugh is seeing you on screen...

He was seated on the sofa, the soft velvet a cushion beneath his body. One leg was drawn up, hands clasped around the knee area to keep it in place; he leaned forward to rest his chin on the knee. The light from the television screen served to illuminate his features; only one word would ever serve to describe them--petite. A small face, almost like that of a baby, surrounded dark eyes that were shadowed by whispy strands of messy, black hair carelessly dyed a bleach-blonde color; by the light of the television, he was pale, as if he never saw the light of day.

On the screen, a figure stood against a blue sea, silhouetted against the setting sun, its back to the camera; dressed beautifully in an old-style dress of black, a hat with a mourning veil and feathers sitting atop its red hair, it appeared as an image out of an old World War II movie, standing silent and sad with a red rose held gently clasped in two slender, gloved hands. Turning, it faced the camera to reveal that it was a pretty man, his sad, dark eyes seeming to see through the glass lense to the audience beneath their makeup, and for a moment it seemed that he would speak; his full, red lips parted briefly-

A shoe shattered the television; the blonde's shoe. Within moments, the blonde got to his feet and slowly made his way down the hall and to a room at the end. A trembling hand shoved the door open silently, and he stepped inside. It was a bedroom, of soft colors, yet one wall had been painted a deep, bloodied red; it was against this wall that a shrine sat, a dresser adorned with many framed photographs, candles, and other such items. The photographs all showed the same person--an unsmiling man in various outfits, his makeup feminine and beautiful, his expression so very sad, the same as the one on the television.

The blonde stopped to stand before the shrine, his darkened gaze traveling over the pictures, before he reached out to gently touch one of the pictures, the largest one in the center. It was a black and white picture done in sepia tones, of the pretty male from the television, dressed in a black dress and large hat, his hair long to fall around his face and over his shoulders elegantly. The picture had a message scrawled across the bottom in red ink, the writing of the one of whom the picture was, though the ink had run as a result of tears--'I'm forever yours Ever yours Faithfully Terachi Shinya' it read. Narrowed eyes took in the words, words that he had read so many times.

I'm forever yours. Ever yours. Faithfully...

In his mind, he could hear the man whisper those words to him as they lay together in the darkness of night, he could see the full lips that he had loved so much form the words against his own lips before they kissed.

He had even believed them, too.

Yet, the words had been a lie, and his heart was broken, shattered into a million, irreparable pieces.

A tear dripped onto the beautiful face, then another; the blonde broke down into sobs and fell to his knees. The picture slipped from his shaking grasp to land on the floor with a clatter and tinkle of breaking glass; the glass had broken, resembling his heart. The sounds served to silence him, to draw his attention to the broken mess before him, and a soft smile crossed his lips.

In the end, though, it was okay. Like a movie, their life together had been; like a movie, it had ended and the credits had rolled. It had become a romance thriller; the pretty one had left a shattered heart for another life, and in response the one who was hurt had changed, become a stalker. He'd left messages for him, sent gifts, pleaded with him to come back to him; when he had seen the man with another, he had become a psychotic killer.

The beautiful creature and his new lover had found their end, together in each others' arms, at the hands of the blonde and an ice pick, one who had loved and lost.

Now all he had was the pictures, images frozen in time, taunting him...