A Little Thing Called Death

Sighs to Screams to Silence

A/N: this one's more of a short story. there's sex in it - be warned. also it's really disturbing. please don't read it if blood, death, conscious surgery or psychopathic serial killers make you jittery in any way.
kay. read on.
~blink-184~

The young couple checked into the dingy hotel at half past ten on Friday night, slightly intoxicated. They went up to their room with only a small bag, which the male carried. They shared another bottle of vodka together before beginning to undress and commence foreplay.

Their quiet moans and heavy breathing could've been heard through the thin hotel walls, had there been anyone else checked in on that floor.

As the couple reached their moment of ecstasy, their moans became louder, the creaking of the bed became rougher. Had there been anyone else checked in on that floor, they might have heard the couple's moans falter, then escalate into shrieks of terror, then stop altogether.

As the curtains were torn and the window was smashed, the male's eyes widened as sharp pain blossomed in his chest. He glanced down to see red - so much blood, practically gallons of it. He screamed, arching his back, which only made it more painful. Before he could blink for the last time, the knife was wrenched from his chest and plunged into his left eye. He shrieked in utter pain and began spasming, his muscular limbs tangling in the once white sheets.

The female's thick, blonde hair was soaked with sticky blood as she was thrown to the floor, forced to watch him get ripped to shreds.

His body calmed slowly, then laid still. The room was silent but for her pained breathing, his blood dripping from the mattress onto the cheap carpet, and the raindrops that were now hammering against the window sill.

Her naked form was grabbed by the neck and thrown backwards. Her head connected with the corner of a coffee table, causing her to cry out in pain and bring shaking fingers to the back of her throbbing head. The same sticky, red wetness that was all over the hotel room came off on her fingers. Her fear-stricken eyes darted to the bed, where his body was still sprawled, his unpunctured eye still open, his mouth frozen open in a permanent shout of horror and pain.

She was grabbed from her position on the floor, and from her thoughts, and pinned to the blood-stained carpet by strong knees on her comparatively weak arms. A fist came down on her face, bringing spots to her vision and yet more blood to her pale complexion. She gasped softly and phased out of consciousness.

She awoke in a cold room, far away from the horror scene that was the hotel room. It seemed like a morgue, and she was strapped to an operating table. Her naked flesh burned against the freezing metal, and she yelped out a curse to her captor.

Speak of the Devil, he emerged from the shadows. A glint in his hand revealed a scalpel, sharp as a bitch's tongue.

Upon catching sight of it, she began struggling against her bonds and shrilly throwing curses at the man as though they could make him falter. Before she could get out a third word, a gloved hand clapped over her mouth, silencing her painfully. Her captor growled, "No," a sound that prompted her to never step out of line ever again.

The hand removed itself, but not before the scalpel carved a deep incision down her chest, straight between her breasts. She moaned in pain, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood.

Without hesitation, her captor cut another deep mark across the first, and another, and another. Warm blood flowed across her skin, down her hips and onto the operating table to which she was tied. She felt tears on her cheeks, and resented them with all her being.

That was the last thing her brain registered before she blacked out for the second time. And the last time.

The captor - the sociopath, the villain - stood back and admired his artwork. It truly was beautiful. A glorious collage of thick red and pink, scattered wonderfully over a pale white corpse. She was the perfect one - even her hair was the correct shade. If only her eyes had been a different colour...
They were green. They needed to be hazel or blue to he right. And so all the artist, as he thought of himself, did was sew a few threads over her eyelids to ensure the despicable shade never escaped.

He laid his utensils down again and sighed. This would have to be the last one. His mind couldn't cope with this any longer - the girls liked to hang around and torture him. The first was Amiee, a small girl of merely eleven, but her skin was just the right softness.

The second, Sapphire, an ebony-haired enchantress of twenty-one, stood a few paces away and screamed at him what his soul said. He didn't like her.

The next one, a tall black beauty by the name of Chry, fifteen years of age, floated before his eyes like a shadow from a dream. Her black bangs always hid her eyes - perhaps the artist saw her like that because he took them away from her.

And now, the final girl, the blonde, pale star he saw before him, hovered behind him, whispering "No," over and over, at a wail, a pained screech that would not and could not waver.

He lashed out at her, but she walked through his hand like a blade through butter. Clean, quick...

The artist, who would now never be recognised, put a gun to his temple and let the bullet rip through his brain. He didn't need it anymore.