That was horrible, wasn't it? To think of it like that. It made it sound like cancer, almost; but then, but then wasn't it? After all, cancer ruined people's lives, and God knows her beauty had ruined his.

It was oddly peaceful, he thought, watching her in the moments before she woke; she was so still, so at peace. On waking, her beauty would return, and with it, her energy. She was always so restless. Always had been. Her mouth, he thought, never stopped moving; speaking, smiling, smirking, scolding. Always moving. But now, as she lay there, it was still. For a fleeting moment, he considered stilling it for good, considered capturing her in a moment like Porphyria's lover- but the moment soon passed, all too soon, as she stirred softly. Soon, he thought. Soon he'd do it.

She woke in stages, as she always did; first the stretch, one limb after another; and then the groan. Then the smile. Then one eye opened, followed swiftly by the other. Her smile widened, as he knew it always did, when she saw him watching her. She thought, he was sure, that it was romantic that he watched her wake- little did she know the true thoughts that lay behind his eyes.

Every day, she'd told him once, she loved him just a little bit more than she had before- smiling, laughing, he'd asked her if that meant there'd ever come a time when she loved him just as much as she possibly could.
She had, of course, demurred a little, told him she didn't think she'd ever reach peak-loving, and he'd laughed at that, too, his face splitting into a warm, bright smile that never quite reached his eyes; not then, nor at any other time that he smiled at her. Not that she ever noticed. Not that she ever did anything about it if she did. Not then.

And certainly not when he smiled at her the final time.

But then it wasn't her fault, not really; it was such a warm smile, after all, so full of love and life and laughter; so full of promise and wonder. She didn't notice anything wrong with it.
And nor did any of the others.

I have a wisp of an idea of a concept. Something about a serial killer who loves all his victims, or pretends to, or something?
I'm not sure if this even actually qualifies as 'dirty'. Barely a story. Probably not even really writing.
Uh. If this piques anyone's interest, we can do something based around this. Or I have a way cooler serial killer dude I can dig out from my archives.
I dunno.