THE HEARTBREAKER

I never meant to kill Rosaline Banks.
I mean, I didn't really kill her. Not technically. It wasn't something I could be imprisoned for, like first-degree murder or manslaughter. It was a different kind of execution.
On December 17th, I told Rosaline Banks that I was in love with her. I never spoke to her again.
It's not like I didn't do this. Play girls, I mean. I've done it before, and if I'm being honest with you, I'll probably do it again. It's an art, almost. I play them like they're putty in my hands. I've mastered the skill. They don't even know I'm manipulating them until they're in tears.
Rosie was different, though. I almost didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to see the light leave her eyes when we passed in the hallway and I ignored her, didn't want to see wet trails down her cheeks in class after lunch.
But almost wasn't enough.
My therapist told me to keep a journal. That's why I'm writing this. I hate it already. My mom made me go to a shrink, after the news that Rosie was murdered spread like wildfire through our small town. She thought we were still together. I never tell her about when I break hearts. I don't want her to be disappointed in me. I'm disappointed in me. But shattering girls' hearts is an addiction. I have to hide this journal from her.
The key to ruining girls is waiting until they're absolutely smitten with you. Wait until you meet her parents, wait until she's told you all her secrets, wait until she's made herself vulnerable enough to have sex with you and wait until even your name makes her smile. Tell her how much you worship her and think she's beautiful and how you couldn't live without her.
Then cut her off.
I've met tons of parents. Parents love me, really. It's 'cause their daughters love me. Then they hate me.
I met Rosaline's parents. Only once, though. Rosie has - had - an overly successful lawyer for a distant father, and a not so successful artist for an absentminded mother. She had no siblings, and was frequently left alone in a massive New York City loft with just a notepad, a pen, and her thoughts. Rosie looks - looked - a lot like her dad, which she always found ironic, since she rarely saw him. I keep messing that up. Hard to believe she's really dead. Not just a broken heart, but a dead body. A corpse.
She met my mom. Hell, she loved my mom. My mom loved her. My mom made good Italian dinners whenever I told her Rosie was coming over. Rosaline never met my dad, though. I mean, neither have I, so it's okay.
Rosaline and I met almost three years ago. She was in my grade nine art class. I only took art for the easy credit, but Rosie took art because it was her life. Rosaline got it from her mom, obviously. But Rosie was better because she felt art. She put her heart and soul into her heart, like she put her heart and soul into me. But art didn't let her down.
Rosaline was a mystery to most. She spoke infrequently at school, and was never seen outside of school by anyone, probably because she had no friends. Her hands were always inked with words I could never decipher and drawings I never understood.
Everyone wanted to discover who Rosie was. Probably because she had a face like a picture. It's hard to remember exactly what she looked like. I wish before I broke her heart that I took longer to memorize her face, her hands, her lips, her breasts. She had pale skin, so pale and smooth that her faint freckles dotting her nose and cheeks were practically luminescent, the faintest blush rendering her cheeks red. Her lips were pale pink and glossy, her eyes the colour of a robin's egg. Her long locks were the palest blonde I'd ever seen. She was just this fragile thing, like glass that could easily shatter.
And I crushed her.
It was a challenge at first. I'd taken on tons of girls, sometimes multiple at once, and it was always a game to me. Rosaline Banks was easily the most mysterious girl out of all the ones I had played. It was a test to me, and I passed.
And I liked her, I did. Not enough to love her back, though.
Anyway. Rosie and I met in art class. She barely spoke, always keeping her head ducked with a curtain of fair hair blocking her pretty face. I knew I wanted her. I didn't care how long it took -  I would wait until her light blue eyes were filled with infatuation for me, her soul bared for me. And I'd rip it into shreds, and enjoy it.
I sometimes think I need more than just a therapist. Sometimes I think to be normal I need something stronger, like medication or alcohol.
I told Rosaline I loved her on December 17th. It was snowing and it was absolutely freezing. I remember Rosie's lips were tinted blue. She said it first - that she loved me. That's when I knew I had her. Hook, line, and sinker. Her breath came out in little clouds, her blue eyes full of love and hope, and she was shifting from foot to foot. 'Cause her feet were cold. They always were.
I don't remember what she was wearing. Can you believe it? That's what I feel worst about. Not breaking her heart or even the fact that she's dead. It's that I can't remember everything about her.
I said it back then. I told her I loved her. That was the last time I ever spoke to her. I got countless text messages after that. Tons of phone calls and notes slipped into my locker, in Rosaline's small and perfect print on torn notebook paper, detailed with little drawn hearts. She tried to talk to me, too. But after I started blatantly ignoring her, she got the hint.
I know I'm an awful person. I know better than anyone else. But I get high off of this. Hurting girls. Never physically - except for that one time. It's like a drug, an adrenaline rush.
Rosaline Banks was declared dead on January 1st. Way to kick off the New Year.
Just a couple weeks after I broke her. It's not my fault, not really. I wasn't the one who murdered her. Some kid at school told me. Just said that the albino girl I used to hang around with was in the newspaper. I didn't think I'd have to check the obituaries.
By that point, I was already dating another girl. I mean, dating her wouldn't last long. It was barely even considered dating, really. When I went home, I unfolded the newspaper. After scouring the pages, I finally located it. Rosaline May Banks, aged seventeen, was found dead January 1st at 2:47 in the morning.
Anyway. So I guess this was my first journal entry. I hate it and that dumb therapist and my mom and myself.
I think I should care more than Rosie is dead. All I feel is guilt. I mean, I didn't murder her, but I could have done more to prevent it. I chose not to. I regret that decision.
But I don't regret breaking her heart.