Mark Kirkbride

Because, visible through the slashed covers, the bone-deep wounds that crisscross the couple__ bodies pump blood. Some of the flaps of skin resulting from glancing blows are like gills, breathing. Yet even as the cries die away, he carries on.

It was true. She was his soul__ star. His heart ignited every time she came into the room, flared with every just-so gesture. Anything she touched became instantly talismanic.

They say the mad live in a world of dreams, or nightmares. I just need to find the way out.

I reinvented myself. I acquired a taste for evil. I found I have a talent for it. And I murdered the old me.