You are a Killer

         You lick the sweat accumulating on your upper lip, slowly, and close your eyes as the hunger sets in.  The coffee you have just made sits in front of you, untouched, wafting steam into the chilled air. 
         The internal debate begins, as it always does at this point.  A raging, bloody battle where both sides are nearly equally matched.  Similar, you suppose, to the shoulder-angels depicted in so many stories and movies.  The one on the left, dressed in white, wields a sword of logic and compassion and humanity.  The one on the right, dressed in blood red, wields a sword of chaos and passion and monstrosity.
         Your mind and body are torn apart by what you know is right, and what you know you need.  The sweat pours down your chest and back and neck and between your thighs as the ache for what you do not want becomes the thing you need to stop.  The thing you cannot stop.
         You stand and begin pacing.  Sweating and pacing and tearing at your hair at your skin at your brain searching for the off switch to this desire that you know you will never find.
         A sound from the basement pulls you out of your head and toward the door.  The knob seems to glow with the promise of what lies beyond and burn with the knowledge of things to come.
         You lick your lips again.  This time not for the sweat but for the phantom taste of pale white skin.  Blushing from the heat and strain of touch.
         The war continues to rage in your head.
         Your hand itches to reach for the door.  Maybe you will be satisfied by just a look this time.  Perhaps simply seeing the porcelain skin and perfect lines and soft hair…your tongue brushes your lips again.  Yes, just a peak and then you’ll leave.
         You reach out slowly and turn the knob ever so gently.  The door swings open with the slightest of creaks.  A whisper of which only you know the meaning.
         You descend the stairs without a sound. One by one, steadily getting closer to what will ease your hunger.
         The dust floats delicately in the faint light from the now distant open door.  There is no window to illuminate the room, just one single light bulb, hanging from a rafter, which is not on.  You stand in the darkness for a long moment.  Listening to your breath.  Listening to hers.  The sounds melt into each other and soon become one.
         You reach up and pull the chain that sends a signal through the electrical workings of your house and turns on the bulb.  It swings back and forth making the light dance across the pale, exposed skin of the girl chained to the wall.
         There is fear in her eyes.  As there should be.
         You might still turn and go back up those stairs.  Back to your table and now, undoubtedly, cold coffee.
         You see the light catch a single drop of sweat.  Watch as it rolls lazily from her neck, across her collar bone, and finally settles in the divot between her breasts.
         You lick your lips one final time, and the battle is won.