Disclaimer: I do not own Sailor Moon.

(A.N Okay, I'll fully admit that this is pretty strange, but the plotbunny bit me and wouldn't go away.)

By Silver Sailor Ganymede

Never during my relationship with you was I truly ever able to make up my mind as to whether I lpved or hated you. Most of the time I felt I loved you, but perhaps that 'love' was nothing more than misinterpreted and misguided lust. Indeed I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case; you were almost flawless to me. However, no matter how often we lay together, we almost never talked and when we did it was usually for one of us to raise our voice in anger against the other for some utterly trivial manner.

But like I said, you were almost flawless in my eyes. How could you have been otherwise, with your curvacious body, flowing emerald hair and haunting dark eyes. Perhaps that was why I loved you, because you reminded me somewhat of Minako, the one whom I had loved and lost: indeed I now have no doubt that that was the case.

Like my beloved Minako you knew of your beauty, but unlike her you flaunted what you had and coveted what you did not. Your vanity, Esmeraude, was the only ugliness about you, except perhaps your temper – though mine was far worse –, and your screeching laugh. Of course you failed to acknowledge any of these: it's a pity really; perhaps you would still be alive today if you had.

You were manic in your want for complete perfection. Even I had no control over you when you were at your worst. It was completely unstoppable, and in the end it killed you. I still remember seeing your body lying on the floor, your eyes blank and lifeless. Dead to a gunshot, the trigger having been pulled by your own hand: at least that's what everyone was lead to believe. I was never even a suspect; they had all thought you insane, and I, being a far better actor than they had ever imagined, was the subject not of accusations but of condolences. They never realised the truth; I killed you, Esmeraude, and left your corpse far more beautiful than your body had ever been in life. Perhaps in death your search for perfection was finally realised, your vanity having vanished along with you, your rage forever quelled, your laugh forever silenced.

As I think over this, I wonder whether perhaps the teachings of the Bible – which I knew well, for my father had sent me to a Catholic school after my mother's death – had at least some truth. The seven deadly sins – in your case pride, lust, wrath and envy haunted you – would eventually be your downfall. Beauty will not matter to you in Hell.