I watched as my body - or what was left of it, laid limp in the newly blood-stained bathtub, bloody water marked the floor. The man who had killed me smiled under his bloody mask, admiring his work, art in his eyes.
My wrists were cut and bruised and ripped open my flesh and blood marking the walls - beautifully - to him. My veins were torn out of my lifeless corpse and were laid rhythmically around the blood-covered bathroom, like a painting a sick, sick painting. My bones stuck out of my almost skinless body. My body had been rubbed until warm crimson blood spilled from my skin with sandpaper - and holy shit did it hurt - to watch the killer almost dance around me, not a care in the world now that I was dead. And as he cleans up his bloody mess, his 'mistake', and god, If I didn't say, I deserved it.
My torso ripped open my organs and ribs ripped from my chest, my stomach bruised with the name - Jasmine - carved into me. I deserved this, I deserved it. The way I act, the way I manipulate the people around me without even trying. I didn't want this! I didn't ask to be this way! I never liked the way I was, I always hated myself.
My Jaw was ripped off - you could hardly tell it was my face - my eyes were gouged out, and left on the red-covered floor. My head had bashed into the side of the tub - it was a shit sty - god forbid he get caught right? He would spend years upon years in jail right? I stood there watching as the metallic blood pooled under my body from my wounds. My corpse was fresh - very fresh.
My throat was torn out, and what was left of my bloodied, and fucked up neck was covered in gross hickeys and bruises from being strangled. Despite the fact that well - I'm fucking dead - as I stared at the mutilated body in front of me, I fell sick to my stomach, the gore pooling around my feet, I could feel the warmth of it leaking from my blood and drowning me in my own filth.
The cold breeze brought my mind back to its senses, I looked back at my killer - I reached out to him, I wanted to stop him! I went through him, the cold air only getting colder, my eyes widened and felt like they teared up, but I was not able to even speak. My hand reached up to my face and I felt the holes where my eyes should be - how can I see - suddenly I heard it, sirens. Sirens! But he didn't react - why? why didn't he care! - as if, he didn't care. He let the blood sink around his feet, and let my mutilated body overflow in the tub, a mix of water and blood flooding the floor - and he let it be that way.
My thighs were mixed with bitter cum, and blood. It's not like you could see my thighs anyway, it didn't matter to him, I was his masterpiece
I'm coping, this is how I cope? What a shitty way to cope huh?
(Keep in mind this is not the finished project)
