He wanted to think it was because he loved her.

Why else would he go to such lengths? Such extremes? The things he had done for her, the lines he had crossed were such he had never thought himself capable of. Everything she asked he had done because he loved her and maybe, he supposed, so she could love him. Or just like, would be alright, too. He wasn't really that picky. Just being in her presence or thoughts, just a brief consideration that flickered through her mind every now and then, would satisfy him. He thought that once, a long time before her brown eyes and long, pointy fingers -- like claws on a ghost, a monster under his bed -- he had been someone else. Someone completely different from the man that was standing here with the axe in one hand and container of gasoline in the other.

He hoped he had been.

Not that it was important now or like he could even remember. It didn't matter. That was a time long dead and buried. Nothing before her mattered and so he did not waste much time thinking about it. It would only hurt, in the end.

''How much do you love me, Christopher?''

An ungodly amount. Enough to swing an axe to a man's head; enough to sever his limbs and put them into a plastic bag, enough to pour gasoline all over his house and light it on fire. Enough to burn his life, his home, every memory, to the ground. The man in the house seemed a nostalgic one; photographs lined every wall and there were trinkets, rubbish, on every little crooked shelf. Things that seemed unimportant to him, to a stranger, but which appeared to hold some sort of sentimental value. Perhaps, he ponders, the stranger in the house is a hoarder. Was a hoarder. As all his life and the things that made him who he was burn into little sparks of embers, climb to the sky like drunken fireflies, all that is left behind as proof of him is ash. Not that it matters.

''How much do you love me?''

Too much.

Enough to lose sight of everything. Enough to forget himself, lose his person in the chaos of chemical reactions and physical responses. He never did believe in love, which is why she seems so insanely important now. Because she matters, because she matters so much that everything else ceases to. It must be love, anyway. No matter how hard he tries he can't bring to mind anyone else he'd do such incredible things for. Such awful, wretched things. Can't think of the last person he killed for. And it's kind of strange, because all his life every person he met told him that love was kind. That love was beautiful and right and pure and good. Nothing about this seems good, or pure or wonderful. It seems wrong. Tainted. This wasn't what he was promised by films and poems and songs, it wasn't like any of the love he saw in others or what they told him in their stories. It wasn't at all what he had seen in their eyes. It was something far darker and far stranger, and most certainly, this love was unkind.

But it is love. This he knows, surely. Perhaps more surely than anything else. He can't really be certain of anything anymore; even his own name seems unimportant. All that is important is her approval. Her praise and grace. All he asks for is that when her mouth calls his name it will not sound bitter or foul. She doesn't have to love him, though that would be nice; she just has to acknowledge that he exists, and be alright with this.

''How much do you love me, Christopher?''

All too much. And not nearly enough.

He wanted to think it was because he loved her.

Why else would he go to such lengths? Such extremes? The things he had done for her, the lines he had crossed were such he had never thought himself capable of. Everything she asked he had done because he loved her and maybe, he supposed, so she could love him. Or just like, would be alright, too. He wasn't really that picky. Just being in her presence or thoughts, just a brief consideration that flickered through her mind every now and then, would satisfy him. He thought that once, a long time before her brown eyes and long, pointy fingers -- like claws on a ghost, a monster under his bed -- he had been someone else. Someone completely different from the man that was standing here with the axe in one hand and container of gasoline in the other.

He hoped he had been.

Not that it was important now or like he could even remember. It didn't matter. That was a time long dead and buried. Nothing before her mattered and so he did not waste much time thinking about it. It would only hurt, in the end.

An ungodly amount. Enough to swing an axe to a man's head; enough to sever his limbs and put them into a plastic bag, enough to pour gasoline all over his house and light it on fire. Enough to burn his life, his home, every memory, to the ground. The man in the house seemed a nostalgic one; photographs lined every wall and there were trinkets, rubbish, on every little crooked shelf. Things that seemed unimportant to him, to a stranger, but which appeared to hold some sort of sentimental value. Perhaps, he ponders, the stranger in the house is a hoarder. Was a hoarder. As all his life and the things that made him who he was burn into little sparks of embers, climb to the sky like drunken fireflies, all that is left behind as proof of him is ash. Not that it matters.

Too much.

Enough to lose sight of everything. Enough to forget himself, lose his person in the chaos of chemical reactions and physical responses. He never did believe in love, which is why she seems so insanely important now. Because she matters, because she matters so much that everything else ceases to. It must be love, anyway. No matter how hard he tries he can't bring to mind anyone else he'd do such incredible things for. Such awful, wretched things. Can't think of the last person he killed for. And it's kind of strange, because all his life every person he met told him that love was kind. That love was beautiful and right and pure and good. Nothing about this seems good, or pure or wonderful. It seems wrong. Tainted. This wasn't what he was promised by films and poems and songs, it wasn't like any of the love he saw in others or what they told him in their stories. It wasn't at all what he had seen in their eyes. It was something far darker and far stranger, and most certainly, this love was unkind.

But it is love. This he knows, surely. Perhaps more surely than anything else. He can't really be certain of anything anymore; even his own name seems unimportant. All that is important is her approval. Her praise and grace. All he asks for is that when her mouth calls his name it will not sound bitter or foul. She doesn't have to love him, though that would be nice; she just has to acknowledge that he exists, and be alright with this.

All too much. And not nearly enough.