I met him after I got sick, my husband had left me, unable to accept that my illness wasn't going to just go away. He told me I was beautiful, told me that it was a shame I was sick, that he would take care of me, and that he'd make sure I was comfortable.

He was true to his word, I moved in with him, and he treated me very well. He fed me, brushed my hair, and always said how beautiful I was; even when my illness made my hair fall out into the brush and I began to get thinner.

Today he came into my room, his face pale, his hand clutched to his bleeding arm, and he removed the restraints holding me down to my bed. Even with my illness I was quick, it didn't take me long before I had him pinned to the bloody floor, the only evidence of my meals, and I sunk my teeth into his flesh.

As I was devouring this man, who had taken such good care of me the last couple of months, he let out a sigh, resting his hand on what was left of my hair. My teeth ripping the flesh from his chest, my eyes clouded and blinding me; only his scent and voice reminding me who he is.

He says he loves me.