IT WAS ODD TO SEE IT RAINING IN THE MIDDLE OF OCTOBER, yet the dark clouds casted a thick shadow over River Heights, and the rain poured down on the picturesque pavements washing away all the empty stepped on plastics from the monthly carnival and the blood.
Hector Vincent stands all high and mighty even whilst soaking in the rain—with his dark hair sticking to his face, and his drenched coat smeared in crimson, while the rain washes the blood from the tips of his bony fingers—as he looks down upon the lifeless corpse of Anastasia Wilson.
The once, vivid, beautiful Anastasia Wilson—who everyone knew as Anne, sweet Anne—lies on the dirty pavement, with eyes wide open focused into the void, the same eyes which once held so much vibrance and life within them now remains hollow. Sweet Anne seems less sweet when her platinum hair is tangled in mud and blood, while her throat is split open and gushing out endless stream of scarlet mixing with ruby liquid sweeping from the deep wound dressing her torso.
Hector watches his brother, Troye, kneeling beside sweet Anne, his uniform losing the pristine white and painted completely red as his wet charcoal hair sticks to his eye, and splatter of crimson paints his pale sharp face, while his lips are slightly parted as he stares at the beautiful, lifeless jade eyes of Anne while holding a steady knife inside her.
Troye breathes in the metallic damp stench in the air and feels an urge to caress sweet Anne's cheeks then deepen the wound on her neck but can't for he knows he's running out of time. Troye's holding the knife so far down the girl's torso that he can feel something warm and soft around his glove clad hand. Probably an organ.
“Now you're being over dramatic,” Hector says, as the sky grumbles and the rain begins to fall harder, slapping against the earth.
Troye looks over at his hand, inside her, and then glances at his brother.
“Hear that?” says Troye as he twists the knife, deeper inside her, which makes a morbid squelch of a noise and gushes out more blood.
Hector smirks while Troye flashes his wolfish grin, the gore lightening his eyes.
“Quit playing around,” Hector says, glancing around, “You know we gotta move.”
“Awh so soon?” Troye fakes a look of pity, looking back at Anne. “I was hoping sweet Anne, over here would sing us a song.”
Hector snorts. “Very funny. Now get up asshole we gotta go.”
“You're no fun.” Troye says finally standing up. “I'll leave the knife, though.”
“No you fucking won't. Get that shit out.”
Troye flashes his brother a taunting grin. “No. Get it out yourself if you want.”
Hector looks down at the body and sees the knife is almost completely buried inside her and he has no gloves on. He contemplates for a second but ends up mumbling a faint fuck it under his breath.
“My brother,” Troye says draping his blood soaked hand over Hector's shoulder, “stop being so paranoid. Let loose. Have fun.”
“We've used that knife for a year.”
“Is that sentiment I sense?”
“No dumbfuck,” Hector shakes off his hand from his shoulder. “That's evidence.”
“The rain won't stop until later tonight. It'll wash most of it out.”
They stand there gazing down at the beautiful deed they've done. Anastasia Wilson's pastel sweater now takes the hue of deep red, her busted lip—which she got due to the fruitless struggle with the boys—remains parted, her eyes wide open with blood staining the edges. Her neck is one stab away from disconnecting her head from her body.
And as the boys stand under the pouring rain, with the blood of the now deceased Anastasia Wilson on their hands and faces and coats, they watch their art piece painted over the muddied concrete with a morbid grin splitting over their beautiful faces.
