I watch my bloody victim struggle surrounded by ghost white walls painted with crimson red. Each stroke of paint, a hand print. She spasms on the floor. She finally lost it. I am too proud of my work.
I sit, bored in my tiny room surrounded by computer screens. The only thing entertaining right now is watching the young woman role on the floor in a swirl of laughs and cries. Finally! She's stopped breathing. Now I can get the journal.
I get out of my room and walk downstairs, the white stairs starting to stain greyish brown by my boots. I walk down the dark hallway and open the two doors of the white room. My long jacket being slightly pushed back by the wind.
The room smells of death and metal. I pace around the body for a few moments before realizing the journal is against the wall, probably thrown by her. I get excited as I pick up the small leather book. What things could she have written? This will be so much fun.
