Psychopath

one;

[wine and music]

[no.1]

The glass of rosé sits on the marble counter as the lights of the kitchen ceiling create stars in the limpid liquid. She continues to pour, the air thick with ripe grape. Drops land around the cup erratically, increasing her anticipation with each whiff. God she needs this wine , she watches the cerise red, her tongue watering, fingers trembling, lips cracking.  She licks them, her saliva not making them any less parched, only the wine will serve her justice. 

Just a few more dripping drops, small orbs,  juiced grapes, her ultimate weakness, her proudest forte , pouring into the wine glass and then tadah!, pleasure will surge into her body like flavoured adrenaline . The glass is full three quarters up. She stops. 

"It's meant to be three quarters down, not up you greedy bitch, " she scolds herself, tutting her rosey lips furiously before giving a sigh with an air of whateverness , she indolently shrugs , letting her petty care roll of her petite shoulders like rain off a leaf, "Well, " She muses to the glass, " inspite of myself not a drop of you shall go to waste." Running her mouth over with her spit one more time she holds the glass on her lower lip, the cold glass sending bolts of electricity through her heart. 

'Gosh, if this is how the glass makes me feel imagine the wonders of the wine.' 

And then, a man , a small , over weight and balding man curls his hands like a toddler demanding for its' mothers hand, his cracking lips and desperate tongue gasping and whispering for help, almost completely destroying the mood. His voice is like slitted throats and secrets crawling inside a cage and beckoning its prisoner to insanity,  now on her youthful skin it is leaving dirty opaque foot prints that send tremors down her exterior, all she wants, besides her glass of wine in its glorious entirety , was to wash away the bottled screams this man had placed from the expanse of her brown skin. 

"Please." It's a whisper that tiptoes in circles around the crevasse of her ears, making every single hair stand.

It's the worst part, not the kill itself but the after effect. The begging and the unavailing pleading: 'Please I have a family,' or 'Don't you have a heart?' ( she does for the matter, just not a properly functioning brain) or 'Have mercy'  and  blah blah bah. It baffles her honestly, as in they all know they're shitty people - mortal and shitty people. Death is only inevitable for them, so whats the point? Why beg to stay alive when you're simply just going to ruin the lives of those who deserve immortality, eventually pissing someone off and then just bringing yourself closer to your fate? 

 But the pointless self pitying occurs when she doesn't do the job properly, when she doesn't get it over and done with with her signature rose gold bullet because she has forgotten ( organisation not being her strong suit, or any suit at all for the matter ) or the target ( commonly he as there are a lot of cheating bastards out there ) lashing out on to her before she has enough time to pull out her weapon. In this instance it was the former, without her revolver she had to think fast and grab the closest item in reach which had resulted in  her hitting him continuously with his chrome table lamp. It was previously standing straight on top of the coffee table next to his white leather sofa,  now it was covered in his blood, the spontaneous weapon dropped carelessly next to his head in desperation of an alcoholic beverage.

She can't listen to him, and she isn't going to ruin her appetite for her wine, the red of the wine and the red of his shirt, like she had spilled him and now drinking him, second hand cannibalism in a way . She wrinkles her left nostril, lifting her right eyebrow when the unpleasant image paints itself on the canvas of her brain, her mind a beautifully painted psychotic masterpiece did not want something from the likes of a cheap horror film embedded inside her head.