Her hair. It always came back to her hair -- so soft, the delicate auburn curls bouncing in the palm of his hand. Though her body was completely lifeless, her hair remained livid, coaxing him with its texture against his callused fingertips. So soft. So perfect.

Carefully, he removed the clothes from her body, listening to the fabric glide off her skin, their silken whispers an erotic enchantment. One by one, the material slipped to the floor; it was so dark he couldn't even see the blood desecrating her light blouse, her short school-girl skirt. The uniform itself was almost non-existant.

But he could smell the blood perfectly: the overpowering scents of copper and strawberries invading his nostrils, filling his body with a carnal pleasure. The latter scent had been from her hair, reminding him of the mistake humanity had encountered time and time again.

He pulled several srands of her soft hair from her scalp, his other hand caressing the curves of her flesh, his fingertips touching her dead nipples.

He raised his left hand to his face, the tangled hair entwined with his fingers, the flat curls brushing against his crusted mask, the strands subtly entering through the cracks and beathing-holes of that mask, tickling the inside of his nostrils. Closing his eyes, he inhaled, feeling the hairs writhe within his nose.

He removed his mask, tasting the hairs, tasting the strawberry scent. He wanted more.

Hungrily, he began to graze on her head, feeling the crunch of hair and flesh and bone between his teeth, tasting the blood that pooled at her wounds, there for his taking.

He accepted the offer.

His tongue mapped the contours of her head, her face, tasting the jelly of her eye, thrusting it between her lips, in and out. In and out.

And so the dance began.

They waltzed together, her dead, naked body draped over him, his hands grasping onto her nude perfection as they twirled in the centre of the room.

The remains of her hair swept across his face.

And so they danced.