If not in Real Life.

The Bipolar Murder: Conclusion.

Is docility such a difficult trait to acquire? 

Ignoring my inner evils, I looked at her eyes. There were half covered by her bangs, while the rest of her hair stayed in a cute little bun. Hair: I'm sure they don't even know what's going on with the rest. To itself, it simply remains to be carefree strands, floating weightlessly in every breeze. They are, after all, dead cells. Carefree once dead. Hair: so filled with movement and colour yet dead. Death is pretty. Yeah, pretty expensive.

So, what do I do with you? RIBS! Not yet.

"Where did I keep it?" I ask myself, looking around for something that fancies my creativity. "Ah, yes." I reached up to the shelf beside her stand and pulled out my toolbox. She began frantically shaking all over, seizure-like. So I, with a large curiosity and no expression on my bloodplattered face, stood back and watched her. With my toolbox in hand, I simply stand and stare blankly at her almost, watching her let the zip tie dig into her arm, inching closer to the gaping palm. The plastic floor too looked, red and helpless; I wouldn't have it any other colour. When she finally lost her energy, and close to losing her will as well, I began.

I placed my toolbox down blind to her drowsy eyes and opened it up. So you finally took the Prisoner out, eh? A stupid name I thought up once upon a time for my favourite and most versatile tool: the pliers. It really didn't seem like the instance for the others today. All this was blind to her. I turn around. She didn't twitch. Her eyes locked onto mine. She tried being brave, I could sense it. I inched closer to her and I could feel her warmth increase, she had raised the temperature of the room quite slyly. I'm at arms length but her sharp breaths still burnt my skin. Such intensity. What was she thinking? May intimidation pave way to my surrendering to her womanly prowess? She really is pretty. And soon, pretty dead.

There has been no wire that my pliers haven't been able to cut. They usually deliver, cutting through metal as delicately as butter. Now, how would bone respond? Only one way to find out. I caught hold of her left hand, which was blue now. She's breathing so heavily, a hummingbird's confident heart would feel challenged in comparison to hers. This is going even better than I imagined.

"Hey, look at me." I commanded. She was reluctant but distracted. I snapped off the tip of her first finger, just at the nape of the beginning of the nail. She stretched out her insanely quivering hands in reflex. All fingers stretched outwards. Her blood pumping profusely out of the other hand with no zip tie, resonating with the increasing pleasure within myself. Without any time to recuperate, I snap two more off and her legs just gave up. They gave up their strength to the rest of the body. The experiment worked! jumped my inner evils. Her left hand did not bleed out anymore. The tensile zip tie has proved himself in satisfying my creative realm, where the sky is the ceiling, the ground: plastic, and the rotting, drying cries and blood of my play things is the horizon. I was pleased. We are pleased.

She had a pretty cocktail dress on, with a little waist, stomach, and back showing. It's moments like these that frustrate a person. Should I tie a nylon fibre wire around, in the places that show, and haul her from the roof to see if she splits in half or RIBS! Or yes, cut out a rib from them. Ugh. I slap her in frustration. Hmm? That felt relaxing. I slap her across the face again. Haha! One more time with the pliers this time, yes? Yes. I thrash my pliers-holding fist outward. Her jaw line... it's gone! Haha! I cover my eyes and mouth with my bloody hands, trying to control my demonic snickering.

She passed out.

I ripped off the tape and her mouth just fell—dangling—completely into the support of her skin. I carried her up to the roof to execute my plan. Which one, I have no clue. I cannot stop grinning while debating the ideas.

An hour later, she awakes in a new venue. Free from plastic ties and tape. She can't talk or use her magnificently mutilated hands. I'm saving resources, you know. However, she thought of running, seeing that I wasn't around. I was just spectating. The door to get to the lower levels was wide open.

RUN! RUN! HAHAHA! RUN! My inner evils impatiently waited to witness an orchestrated suicide. She looked around, held her jaws up with her blue, dead palm and she ran with all the energy she had left. She was surprisingly fast, must be all that running from people after stealing from them. She ran right for that open door.

The door closed with a loud bang. Now, you may wonder why she would take the time to extend such a courtesy so as to close the door behind her. She didn't. The nylon fibre wire was tied around her waist—then the door. It was quite messy, my knots. When the door closed, her running was cut off. One half of her laid on the upper flight of stairs, the lower half and her organs decorated the railings. The legs, maybe, kept running.