“Well boy, what would you like to become when you grow up?”

“I don’t really know, Sir.”

“Come on, child, what would you like to do?”

“I would like to eat, Sir.”

“My dear boy, I don’t mean that in a literal sense. What I mean here is this: what are your aims in life? What do you dream of?”

“I dream of islands, Sir and of oceans with gushing waters, of mountains with stark peaks and of acres and acres of beautiful greenery.”

“Come now, son, don’t joke around with me. Let me rephrase my query; what do you like?”

“I like ribbons, Sir.”

“Eh?”

“Ribbons, Sir. They are strands of silk, cotton or maybe other material kind of sewn together. They come in a variety of colours. Girls sometimes tie ribbons to their hair, Sir.”

“I know what a ribbon is, Kyuhyun!”

“That’s wonderful, Sir! Do you like ribbons as well?”

“Get out, boy! Stand out. I don’t want to see your face in my class today! And report for detention as well. Your cheek is going out of limits. Get out!”

                                                                                                                         ***

          Cho Kyuhyun is a man of taste, a man of simplicity, a connoisseur and genius all rolled into one. He likes little things, simple things - a curl of ribbons here, a tray of drinks there and a few women. Yes, a simple, artistic life.

       His hands lightly skim the thin material of blue and violet. He brings it close to his nose and sniffs it, as a connoisseur might before swallowing a delectable palate of food. He sniffs solemnly, with a certain grave dignity in his proceedings. It is a curiously serious process; impressive almost, to the hoi polloi. The stale, strange smell of non-livingness rises up his nostrils and thrills him. He immediately recognizes the material; silk, soft, pure, freshly spun silk. He recognizes the quality too; it is exquisite, no traces of mediocrity in it. It is the simple, expensive sort often worn by the truly sophisticated. He opens his eyes and lets them wander across the simple ribbon that lay across his hand. Yes, he was right. Silk, beautiful, perfect silk.

          A harsh clanging, a continuous reverberation of shrill noises arouses him from his nirvana. He ambles along to the door and lets the knob rest under his palm. He looks through the keyhole, peering softly and notices his love on the other end. He smiles and opens up, bringing his lips close to hers, pressing on them gently. But, she doesn’t respond.

          Her eyes are curiously emotionless. He notices that she walks into the room with a stiff stride, not like her usual gait. Her lips which used to curl into rich, curves of happiness now seem etched in a straight sorrowful line. She looks at him with an empty gaze. He stares back. He knows something is wrong. She has never been this strange, this sorrowful, and this inexistent. He waits for her to part her lips, to utter words. He waits for her to explain her behaviour. He waits for her to speak and rid him of his fancies. But she doesn’t. The silence engulfs him.

          He wonders if the time has come already. If she has already begun what countless others had. He hopes not. They have been together for barely six months. And he likes her – a lot. He likes her curious ferocity when she retorts and gives back to him. He likes the strange fury that lights up her eyes. He likes her plump lips that would constantly be engaged in movement. He likes it all. But, today, her ferocity refuses to pounce on him. Her eyes refuse to glimmer and her lips refuse to move. A sad sort of smile plays around his lips. He is sure of it. Yes, the time has come.

         He waits for her to begin the painful procedure. He is in no hurry. He can wait all his life. Once or twice he notices her smooth, unnaturally red lips open slightly as though urging the words to come out. But no sound escapes her lips. She hesitates a great deal. Finally, as a sort of stimulant, he uncorks a bottle and pours the light, frothing liquid in two glasses. He hands one to her. He notices her fingers clutch the glass with a fevered sort of grip. Her veins throb noticeably and the white of her knuckles seem all the more pronounced. She brings her lips to the glass and in a sudden show of movement, throws her head back and tilts the entire volume of liquid into . She swallows fast, feeling the warm liquid run down .

        She wonders if the champagne has been heated too long. There’s something vaguely unpleasant about it and a curious taste seems to linger in . She thinks perhaps that she ought not to have swallowed the entire cup in one go. A strange sort of light-headedness seems to engulf her. She plunges forward.

“I can’t take this any longer, Kyuhyun.” She says decisively and her head bobs furiously in assent. “I cannot take any of your idleness any more. It isn’t fair that I should be the sole breadwinner of the family while you mop around in the house burying your head in those ridiculous knots and ribbons!” She tries to keep her words clear, but a slight slurring seems to creep into her intonations.

          He looks at her with tired, complacent eyes, “They aren’t ridiculous. And I do work sitting at home.” A quiet sort of determination defiantly looks up to her.

She throws her head back unsteadily and laughs. She has never been much of a drinker and somehow drinking all at once seems to affect her considerably. “Yeah, smelling and selling those stupid ribbons! What do you earn, Kyuhyun? Do you even earn anything? Is that a job? Is that your strange, crooked idea of a profession?”

            He brings the tips of his fingers together and stares at her. It’s not an angry stare, not even an irritated one. It is merely an interested look. He shrugs and asks her, “Well, what do you want me to do?”

“You don’t do anything, you creep!” She spits suddenly, the venom in her tone rises up in rage, “I do all the work and now I am going to go away! I am going to move out! And I am breaking up with you! Do you get that, ribbon-boy?” The alcohol seems to cloud her senses, but she tries to stay firm. Strange, she has always known she isn’t the best drinker, but somehow, feeling unsteady after one drink seems bizarre even by her standards.

“Well?” She demands defiantly, almost daring him to say something, to stand up, to perhaps scream at her or prostrate his grief and sob.

         But he shows no reaction. He leans forward slightly and stares at her with a penetrating, sad sort of gaze and says simply, “I was afraid of this.”

         Her eyes begin to glaze but her sharp ears falter at his reply. She stands up unsteadily and leans heavily on the wooden mantelpiece. “I’m out, Kyuhyun. It was nice knowing you, but that’s all. Find yourself a new girl who will be willing to slave for you whilst you sit majestically among your subjects of ribbons. Ribbons! Tcha!” She talks furiously, venomously and slowly walks towards the door. Once there, she waits, pausing almost artistically. She knows Kyuhyun will call out to her and perhaps beg her to stay. He does. He calls out to her. But whether or not he begs her to stay would be debateable in the near future.

“Wait, darling! Please? Don’t leave so unceremoniously.” His voice cuts through the silent ice of her fury. She turns; a sadistic smirk plays on her lips. He gets up languidly and strolls across to her, hands buried deep in his pockets. She feels her eyes droop, but between the slight slits, she notices him coming forward. Fatigue seems to overcome her. Her unsteadiness seems to increase in magnitude. She places one hand on the door to support her tired, drooping body and waits for Kyuhyun to come up to her and apologize. He comes up to her. But he doesn’t apologize.

           Instead, he places his lips on hers and exerts a gentle pressure. She cannot help but respond. He brings her closer to him and begins caressing her. His hands cup her neck with a sudden grip. She gasps. She enjoys it. She tries to fight her fatigue, but she cannot. She feels a string riding around her neck. She tugs at it, but Kyuhyun seems to kiss her more vehemently. She feels the string tightening; an unpleasant pressure seems to push her neck inward. She gasps, this time in pain. It is faintly reminiscent to her of a noose. She breaks apart and through her drooping eye lids watches Kyuhyun give her a slight smirk before curling the ribbon more firmly around her neck. She should have known.

           She doesn’t have the strength to fight any longer. She chokes, she splutters. Her face turns from a rosy pink to a repugnant green. She waits for Death to take her away. She sweeps a gaze around the room one last time. She notices it. She notices that Kyuhyun never drank his drink.

           Kyuhyun stares at the lifeless body cradled in her arms. He tries to feel remorse for his actions. He tries to feel pity. But he fails. He knows the woman had it coming. She should have known better than to try to reform him. He hates patronizing women. She had it coming. She was just like any of the others who had first fallen for him, then decided to change him. He likes his ribbons, thank you very much. And he isn’t about to sacrifice his for anyone.

            He places his lips on her little pink ones that once shone like dewy petals. They are cold and lifeless now. Somehow, he likes them better. He kisses her for a few seconds, letting the chill of Death pass through his body softly and then picks her up. She is as light as a feather. He always chooses his women such, so that it is easier when they need to be disposed of. He carries her in his arms and walks surely down to the cellar. It opens up to reveal a corridor of bottles. He carries her in. A noticeable drop in the temperatures makes his hair stand up on edge. He comes to the end of the corridor. A black door stares at him. It is curiously theatrical.

            He whispers, “Open sesame.” The door swings open. A wide grin adorns his boyish face. He likes his little voice-recognising door. And the open sesame part added to the theatrics. He walks in. The temperature seems to plummet to the negatives. A few boxes, huge coffin-like boxes are lined in a neat, straight row. Seven boxes to be exact. He places her dead body on the frozen floor and picks up another huge box from the many placed at the far end of the room. He brings it in line with the others. It has got to be exact. He picks her up and gently puts her into the box. It’s a cushiony sort of decor. She would like it. He shuts the lid. Through the transparent covering, he notices her peaceful slumber. Yes, she might be sleeping - A sleeping beauty waiting for her Prince Charming.

          She is number eight. He knows now that women are patronizing and that his habits are annoying. But he doesn’t care. He will go out to find another little fly to ensnare in his spider web. And when she turns demanding, he shall eat her up. It is a silly little game, one that he enjoys to the fullest.

                                                                                                                             ***

           It’s a Saturday night. He flexes his muscles before donning his much in fashion coat and walks out to the nearest bar. It’s a chilly night. He enters and cheerfully hallos the merry men he knows while keeping out an appraising eye for the fly that would unknowingly enter his web. His sharp eyes spot a petite young girl seated at the farthest table alone. He lets his eyes travel across her for a moment. Yes, she fits all his requirements. She would do admirably. He walks up to her.

“Hello there, I’m Kyuhyun. And you are?” He extends his hand. She grasps it and shakes it happily enough. The web is spun and ready to snare.

           They chat into the night, with drinks piling on. Alcohol and darkness play their roles beautifully. Before long she is ushered into his car. One thing leads to another and she lands up at his place. Wonderful. The fly walks right into the web.

       Cho Kyuhyun is a man of taste, a man of simplicity, a connoisseur, a genius and a murderer all rolled into one. He likes little things, simple things - a curl of ribbons here, a tray of drinks there, a few women and mass murders. Yes, a simple, artistic life.