We first met under a victorian latern right next to a telephonebox. I was going home, exhausted from my shift, when I saw him. He held a gun and was covered in little splashes of crimson blood, sparkling in the light. It was dark, the latern old and the light bulb faded. The man he had shot laid in the box, slowly bleeding out.
"Get away from him, Miss!", a police man shouted. "He is a dangerous serial murderer!" Another officer was trying to corner him. The man raised his hands childishly and laughed.
"Good boy! You found me!" He laughed and held his trembling belly.
"Right", the police officer said. "We found you, Spite!" At the sound of this name, he stopped laughing.
"Ooooh, I got a codename?", he giggled. "Sounds nice! Nice! I love it!" He threw away his gun and kneeled. He laughed and giggled like a child the whole time.
"That's right, Spite. Down on your knees. Your verdict shall be spoken soon", he said, grinding his teeth.
"Ehhh?" Spite stopped laughing. "Who said I'd go with you?" He suddenly raised his arm, and as it dropped, did the officer. He bleeded heavily from a deep cut along his chest and coughed blood. "I do whatever the f*** I want to do!" Spite yelled and got up. He slashed his hands trough the air, killing the other officer. He laughed and giggled, as his limp body fell to the ground, splatting blood everywhere. Then, he turned to me. His crazy gaze ran over my body, stopping at my eyes.
"I like your look", he whispered and grinned broadly. "I won't kill you tonight." And he left.
Whenever Spite would murder again, I would be there. A crazy feticism dragged me out, a sixth sense for his bloodlust. I knew when he would murder again, I knew where he would murder again. And I loved it. At first I pitied the people, but I noticed he only killed corrupts, drug addicts and other scum. Somehow, he used his madness to clean the city. In his own way, but he did. And everytime he would come close to me, look me in the eyes and tell me I was not going to die. And once, he told me I would not die at his hands. I loved this criminal, this serial killer Spite. I attended all of his kills. Always. And then, he took me home. He just walked me home, childishly whirling his gun around and talking excitedly. He held the door for me, grinned and said "See ya tomorrow." And we met, as he finished some drunk idiot off. We fled the police together, hid underneath a bridge and talked. For hours. Spite was, his madness aside, really nice. I love him. And he knows. I don't know if he loves me, but I don't really care. This murderer has given me more affection and love than every person on this planet combined.
One day, he would just come with me into my flat. I poured him a coffee, washed his bloodstained shirt and chatted with him. He visited me often, though he never told me his real name. He was Spite, and I don't think he even remembers his own name. A few times he was injured, and I treated him. He would thank me, and then we would talk. Just talk. He never tried anything fishy on me. Until I let him. It was about half a year after we first met when I kissed him. He kissed me back and called me his little precious. He moved in a few months later.
Sometimes his mind is so crumbled und torn apart he does nothing, just sits laughing in a corner, stabbing a plushie. He can't do anything or recognize anything but me. He loves me. I know that now. And he knows that I love him.
After a while, his kills ceased. When we met he killed almost daily, now it was only once a week. He seemed to become more sane. When I asked him wether he wanted to be normal he shrugged and kissed me.
"As long as I'm with you, little precious", he said and grinned.
I don't know if I have gone insane by now and just see him and us as normal, or if he really ist not crazy anymore. But I do know that I will always love him, no matter how mad he will be. And I know that he loves me the same.