Blood rushed in his ears as he held the sight in front of him. She was a pretty damsel, sleeping like a baby and he was her killer. Her flawless skin looked like pure white satin against the cool linen sheets of her frilly bed. Her rosy lips were pale from sleep and her long russet eyelashes rested on her cheeks like butterflies. She was at peace.
Gulping down the sudden surge of bile in his throat, he removed a sharp-tipped butcher’s knife from his jacket. His eyes on her, he stepped closer to her bed, ready to get the job done. Sighing, she turned on her side, her hazel-green eyes looking directly into his chocolate brown ones. He stood rooted to the floor, his emotions in turmoil. He was a serial killer, who studied his subjects thoroughly before going for the kill, and this instant he had ignored these facts because his prey was a girl. Closing his eyes against the pain in his chest, he placed one hand on her mouth to muffle her scream and went straight for her throat. The spurt of blood on his hands appeased his raging emotions and he lost his mind to everything, except the blood gushing out of her vein.
Crouched behind a tombstone, he watched the funeral procession inch by. He was close enough to see the crying faces of the family members and the sad, forlorn looks of her close friends. Every one of them mourned her. He was mesmerized with the teenage girl he had murdered but that hadn’t broken his iron resolve to kill her. His next target was the older sister. How would they feel, when the second one rested in another coffin like this?
