Twisted Petals // MIKHAIAH AU

The Art of the Kill

The night had a different energy now—one that Melissa thrived on. The streets of Rosewood were no longer just a backdrop to her routine kills; they were her stage. Each victim, a helpless player in her twisted production. Her murders had evolved, no longer simple executions but intricate performances. She wasn't just killing anymore—she was creating art.---Melissa walked down the dimly lit streets with a calculated calm, her eyes flicking across the shadows like a predator searching for its next prey. Every step brought her closer to her target, but her mind wasn't solely on the hunt. Alessia was there, in her thoughts, like an intoxicating presence she couldn't shake. The thrill of the kill was exhilarating, but Alessia's love added a strange softness to the brutality.

Tonight's target was just another piece of practice. A woman in her late thirties, living alone in a small, quiet house. Melissa had watched her for days, her routines memorized, her habits predictable. The woman was a means to an end—another rehearsal for Brian, who lingered in the back of Melissa's mind like an unfinished story. But as Melissa moved through the silent streets, she couldn't help but think of Alessia, waiting for her at home.

Alessia knew what she did. She didn't say it, but Melissa could feel it—the admiration in her eyes, the way her fingers traced Melissa's skin with both reverence and fear. It was as if Alessia worshipped the darkness in her, understood it in ways no one else could.---Melissa slipped into the woman's house like a shadow, unseen and unheard. Her movements were swift and deliberate, a silent force of death moving through the dimly lit living room. The woman lay asleep on the couch, unaware of the danger hovering above her.

With a precise motion, Melissa slashed the woman's throat. The blood pooled beneath her, the crimson staining the couch cushions. But this was only the beginning. Melissa's kills were no longer just acts of violence—they were statements, and every statement ended with the same signature: a blood-red rose.

Carefully, she dragged the body, twisting the limbs into unnatural angles, creating a grotesque tableau of death. The woman's lifeless face stared upward, frozen in terror. After admiring her work for a moment, Melissa reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a single rose. She placed it delicately in the woman's hand, its red petals stark against the pale, lifeless skin. It was beautiful in a dark, haunting way. The rose stood as her calling card, her silent message to the world: Melissa had been here, and no one could stop her.

When Melissa returned home, Alessia was waiting for her, sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in her hand. The soft glow of the lamp highlighted the curve of her face, the way her lips parted slightly in anticipation as Melissa stepped through the door.

"You're late," Alessia said, her voice low but teasing.

Melissa smirked, walking over to her and taking the glass from her hand. "You know where I've been."

"I don't need to ask," Alessia replied, her eyes locking onto Melissa's with a mixture of admiration and something darker—something closer to desire. "I can see it in your eyes. You're getting better, more dangerous."

Melissa set the glass down and moved closer, her hands gently cupping Alessia's face. "I have to be," she whispered, her lips brushing against Alessia's. "It's all for us. For you."

Alessia's breath hitched, her fingers threading through Melissa's hair as she pulled her closer. Their lips met in a heated kiss, the tension between them dissolving into a moment of raw, shared hunger. Melissa could feel the passion in Alessia's touch, the way her hands gripped her shoulders as if trying to hold onto something both terrifying and irresistible.