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I am your sweetheart psychopathic crush. Drink up your movements, still I can't get enough. I overthink your punctuation use. Not my fault, just a thing that my mind do. LORDE,The Louvre
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The Louvre, Written By Faye
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Willow Zenni was a girl born with a violent, destructive heart. Place a megaphone to her chest and hear the thrashes of her beating insides against her rib cage, the pounding, a loud broadcast of boom, boom, boom, boom. The sound of it sometimes catches itself in her throat, and she chokes, eyes blurry with tears.
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
It's a beat alike to thunder, and she hears it now with blood slicking her mouth, warm and coppery. She can hear it while blood streakens the floor, red and sticky. It's everywhere. It's all over.
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
Who hides behind the mask?
To Willow Zenni, as she stares into the dark, black eyes, the curved edges of the white ghost mask, the face behind it is nothing. It's not who hides behind it which matter, it's the mask itself. It's Ghostface.
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
It's only Ghostface and his knife. The dagger in crimsom, drying with blood from past endeavours, slowing rusting to a dark red. He stalks closer, and closer, tilting his head. "Are you ready to die, Willow?" He asks. "Like the rest of your friends?"
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
Willow bites her cheek, trembling. Her violent heart craving for a moment like this. She'd never forgive herself, after years of trying to strave her heart for what it longs for, she knows that once it has a taste, it will never cease it's need for destruction. Willow rasies her chin, glaring. "Are you?"
