𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱

ⓒⓗⓐⓟⓣⓔⓡ ⓣⓗⓘⓡⓣⓨⓕⓘⓥⓔ

Breathtaking. A red almost as dark as night; an ardent color that made you want more. The smell of it was almost sweet. Luscious and metallic. The whimpering excited him, made him want to hear more. The hand twitched, ruining the soft curve he had carved. Cursing. He focused on the faint classical music that played behind him. Étude in A minor, Op. 25, No. 11 'Winter Wind' by Chopin, if he remembered correctly. A melancholic, passionate piece on the piano that reminded him of the past year he had just gone through. Filled with superb and also dreadful moments; numerous occasions that molded him into the man he was today. He had not completely changed, no; he was still the monster he had always been. Now, however, he was more proper. More stable.

He inhaled sharply when she yelled out as his knife dug deeper in her skin, testing out her limits. She was a feisty one. She held onto his gaze, but she was too weak to do anything more. All she could do was respond to the cutting, to the bruising, in the most haunting yet beautiful way: with her sharp cries of pain. She had put up quite a fight when he had tried to catch her. She had been hard to get unconscious, almost succeeding in getting out of Taehyung's chokehold. He had been glad in that moment that he started working out, as she might have been able to free herself if he had not had that extra bit of strength his training had provided him. It had truly been exciting. She had been the first to scare him a little, to make him doubt his success. However, he was not one to accept defeat. Failure was not an option. He would have tracked her down relentlessly until he could have had the pleasure of digging his loving blade into her defenseless, immobile body.

Her body was quite a sight, too. She was obviously someone who took care of herself, an unusual target for Taehyung. He had always preyed on intoxicated, hopeless women. This one, however, he could not have possibly ignored. She shared such similar features to his mother, she was perfect. The same big brown eyes and long blond hair, a sharp jaw and high cheekbones. When he had first seen her, it had taken the air out of him, had made his heart skip a beat. He tracked her for a whole week before planning his abduction, learning her schedule and habits. It usually never took so long for him to catch his prey, as they were usually too easy to seize. Her, however, he knew was not going to be this easy. He had prepared himself thoroughly; he was completely obsessed with her. He was so glad he had taken his time, as this was one of the best bodies he had ever practiced his art on. So similar.

He sighed when he saw the life slip out of the woman's eyes, saddened by the fact that she had already passed. His mind had, yet again, drifted away during the act, and he had not focused on keeping her alive just enough for it to be enjoyable. He stared at the deep cut, understanding just why she had gone so quickly and easily. It had been fun while is lasted, nonetheless. He would always remember this woman. Remember what she had done for him, all the memories she had made resurface and the opportunity she had given Taehyung to once again fight against those despicable flashbacks; to do what he wished he would have done many years ago on his true enemy. He did not hate these women, contrary to what some would believe. He did not have a deep rooted hatred against women at all; just towards one in particular.

He thought of all the ways he could have dealt with his trauma. He did not know that much about psychology, but knew that the path his brain had chosen was most likely one of the worst. He wondered if there was people out there who has turned out okay from a similar trauma; that had not turned into bloodthirsty serial killers. He wondered why he had to turn out like this. Couldn't he had simply been content with hating her? With despising every memory he ever had of her? Why did he have to go out and chase after women who resembled her and torture them to death? All these questions had echoed at the back of his mind for a while now, as he had opened up to someone about it in the past months.

He brushed his latex covered thumb across her pale bottom lip, smearing the blood that had trickled there onto her cheek. A deep breath, and he threw his knife into the sink. It had become a habit. He stood in front of her, in awe, taking in the painting he had created on his once blank canvas. A bittersweet smile appeared on his face when he remembered the hate-filled words she had cursed at him, the begging, the crying; all the emotions he had previously seen on his mother's face, all the heinous words he had heard come out from her mouth. She had looked so much like her it had taken him aback, opening his heart's wounds back up, as it always did. But this time, however, it had been worse.