AN: It will seem like a third person perspective in the but just letting you know issssss nottttt.

The thing with Harry was that he acted like any normal, charismatic guy would with those sharp features, mesmerizingly dark green eyes, and alluring smirk.

Girls were warned to stay away from him for his player reputation, when really they should have been warned for the malevolent thoughts that lay behind his pretty face.

They should have been warned that he would do more than just break their heart.

They should have been warned to stop admiring how large and masculine his hands were when those were the exact same hands that wished to wrap around their throats during rough, unapologetic sex until there was no more air left in their shriveled lungs.

During high school when his urges began to grow increasingly stronger, Harry believed his thoughts were normal, that everyone had these desires but just kept them at bay and pretended to be normal and ignore them.

He ignored these urges for so long until they couldn't be ignored anymore.

His first kill was when he was seventeen.

And it was his best friend and only love.

She wore a hijab and sported long, thick lashes that framed her soft hazel eyes, the same eyes that would crinkle slightly every time he made her laugh, full lips turned up to reveal straight, perfectly white teeth.

Her name was Habiba.

She was the school counselor and only a few years older than Harry since she was in her early twenties.

Harry found himself in a relationship that he had never experienced before, one that didn't involve sex or violence but rather good fun and laughter.

He would stay in her office at lunch and she would show him her home cooked middle eastern meals that were foreign to his western tastebuds, but he continued to eat whatever she gave him since he never brought his own lunch.

He liked watching her do the simplest things, like laughing.

He loved her laugh.

He loved that no matter what he said she understood him.

And the more his attraction grew, the stronger his urges became.

Harry wanted this untouchable woman who was a taboo in more ways than one.

One day after school he decided he could fully trust Habiba, and he told her.

He told her everything.

About his dark uncovered desires, his need to harm people, especially woman because he liked to see the marks on the more softer, fair skin and body.

Harry was looking down at his hands, nervously playing with the ring on his long pointer finger, so busy elaborating exactly how he felt that he didn't see the horrified expression on Habiba's face until he raised his head up, taking in the look she was giving him.

"But, but you understand me right? You understand where I'm coming from-" Harry panicked when he saw her face pale, saw the way she was slowly rising up from her seat with one hand out as if to calm Harry who was nearing her desk.

"Harry, I just- I think what you need is professional help." Habiba stuttered out, trying to seem calm even as her hands visibly shook, catching Harry's eyes.

"But it's not like I act on my thoughts. They're just thoughts." Harry tried to reason in a desperate tone, still hoping to receive that understanding smile from Habiba that he always got only to frown when she shook her head, backing away to create some distance between them.

"Habiba come on, it's still me." Harry continued to advance forward, letting her back hit the wall like she was a cornered deer, about to get slaughtered by the nearest predator.

"Harry I just, I need some space and time-" Habiba shook her head, eyes darting away from his face when he went around the desk in an attempt to try and comfort her, only for her to reel back in terror when he gently grabbed her arm.

Without even thinking Habiba raised the pepper spray she had retrieved from the side drawer of her desk while Harry was talking, spraying the seventeen year old in the eyes causing him to curse, letting out a "what the fuck Habiba," pain both physical and internal clearly laced in his rough voice as he stumbled back.

Habiba dropped the weapon from her hands in shock that she actually did that, immediately regretting her impulsive action before her eyes widened when Harry backed into the thick, large wooden bookshelf in the corner of the room, still wiping and shielding his burning eyes as the shelves toppled.

On instinct Habiba ran forward, just in time to push him away before the giant book shelf came tumbling down.

One minute Harry was blindly stumbling around, eyes burning as if they had been put on fire and the next he's pushed to the floor before the sound of a loud, violent crash was heard right besides him.

Harry blinked, eyes red and watering from the pepper spray as he squinted at the blurred objects in front of him, his vision finally clearing when the toppled bookshelf and the rest of its contents on the ground came into his view.

Panic swept through his veins when he saw Habiba's limp hand from underneath the pile, immediately bringing him to his feet as he forcefully pushed the heavy, bookshelf off of her, falling to his knees and finding her blank eyes open, a vein in the whites of her eyes exploded causing both of them to look red as he realized one of the wooden shelves had struck her right at the back of her head.

He checked for her pulse with clammy hands.

She was dead.

"Fuck." Harry muttered.

It was after school hours, no one was in the main office aside from any late working janitors.

It was just Harry and his dead love.

His face was surprisingly calm, rid of any emotion as he brought her back to his apartment, a place of his own that he had reserved for himself since he was sick of jumping from foster family to foster family.

Harry was almost a legal adult and no hopeful couples were looking for a borderline psychotic seventeen year old.

He'd been stuck in a foster home since he was four and word on the street was that he had two other younger brothers somewhere out there, abandoned just like him yet he had no motivation to go out and find any of them when he his own problems to deal with.

The apartment was small and cramped as he laid Habiba's body on the floor, her eyes now closed when he brought his hand over her soft face before he left the school grounds with her in his arms.

She was beautiful, like a sleeping angel.

Harry tucked a strand of stray, black hair back into her hijab before his eyes fell to the beautiful, exotic henna design over her soft hand that he was holding in his.

His thumb gently traced the fake tattoo on her skin, remembering a moment when she had told Harry she wanted to have a henna designed on her thighs, back, and arms.

Getting an idea, Harry sprinted to his feet, running to his kitchen to get one of the clean cutting knives, twirling it in his hand and whistling before entering the room, still finding her body there, waiting for him.

He could do this, for her.

Harry made sure to reveal only the necessary parts of her body, rolling up her long sleeves and raising her skirt until it looked like shorts just so he could have access to the tan skin of her thighs.

With great care, he released one last breath before placing the blade against her smooth skin, his concentrated gaze flickering between the henna design on her hand to the imitation of it across her arm, making sure to only cut the first layer as he curved the tip of the knife, making precise carefully detailed swirls and arches across her skin.

It was night outside by the time he was finished with the henna imitation on her arms and thighs, there was a slight pool of blood underneath her but he made sure to gently wipe away the smeared traces across her skin.

He didn't realize he was crying until he finished her back.

Harry wiped the tears with the back of his hand, still holding the blood stained knife as he cried like a small child.

He felt bad.

When he cleaned everything up, including throwing out the soaked rug beneath Habiba's body, he couldn't help but admire the work he had done across her skin.

The designs were beautiful, just like her.

And with that thought, he felt a bit better.

He felt relaxed even, after a day of honoring Habiba by carving his love and respect against her cold, dead, skin.

No longer crying he washed off his hands and knife in the kitchen sink, watching the diluted red water trail and swirl down the sink as he looked at his reflection in the window.

There was a sudden change, maybe it was the trick of a light, or the sudden gleam of a car passing by in the night that his reflection flickered to the image of Habiba's face, looking back at him before Harry blinked, dropping the knife and placing his hands on the window frame only to find that he was looking at himself again, with his wide green eyes and tense expression.

Holy fuck, Harry thought, I'm going crazy.

He paused, furrowing his brows and thinking about it for a moment.

Then he burst out laughing, knowing he already was therefore not worrying about any further as he shut the sink off, grinning and chuckling to himself.

He buried Habiba in the nearest cemetery, wrapped her body in a thin plastic layer not wanting any of the dirt to mess with the red tattoos he had cut across her skin.

He made some room for her there at two a.m in the morning while the world was still sound asleep.

For some reason, he was sad and happy at the same time.

He felt bad yet he felt good.

Harry gave her a proper farewell, sitting down besides the spot where she was buried underneath the soft soil as he talked to her in the night, like she was still there listening to him as he cracked a few jokes, even feeling shy a few times admitting how much he really loved her.

A long shower was overdue once he got back to his flat, washing away all the dirt as he kept his mind on the hijabi beauty who was seven feet underground, skin carved with designs of admiration by him.

Water was dripping down the tall bridge of his nose as he looked down, letting the jets of the shower head hit his stiff muscles as he stood there, thinking about her smile and already missing her.

Too tired to clean up the living room, Harry crashed into his mattress that shifted under his weight as he let out a tired sigh, closing his eyes and leaving the lights on.

Maybe it was the guilt, maybe it was his inner emotions.

Whatever it was, I liked to believe that his subconscious had taken a form much more evident than a nagging voice at the back of someone's head.

And that form was me.

That was how I was created as I lay there next to him in bed, my hands behind my hijab covered head as I watched the slow, peaceful rise and fall of his broad chest, his exhausted face squished against the pillows.

"You really shouldn't have done that." I spoke up, breaking the silence causing his green eyes to fly open in alarm at the sound of my familiar voice.

His eyes widened slightly at the sight of me laying besides him in bed on my side, my head propped up by my elbow while my hand was placed on my hip before our gazes locked.

Harry then closed his eyes again.

"If you're Habiba's spirit I've got no problem with a fine ghost haunting me. Just know that I walk around my flat naked, little heads up for you babe." He sighed, not seeming to care as I pursed my lips.

"I'm not a ghost." I told him, smiling to myself when he opened on eye to give me a look.

"Well if you're not dead under ground in the cemetery, what are you doin' in my bed?" He questioned curiously, his voice bordering an almost husky tone that made me want to roll my eyes briefly.

"I'm not in your bed," I began, catching his full attention before I slowly leaned forward, both of his eyes open and on me until my lips were at his ear.

"I'm in here." I whispered, tapping the temple of his forehead.

AN: next chapters will be Harry and Habiba's past and stuff.

To the people who ask how I come with this kind of stuff it's simple.

I'm really fucked in the head.