Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The crimson wetness cloaked her limbs and torso, hiding her almost translucent and bare skin beneath it. Soaking into her strawberry-blonde hair, making her hair into a envious maroon colour. I hovered over her frigid and lifeless body that lay halfway on the small staircase to her study. My vision danced over her, looking at the blissful scene I had created. Her now light-blue lips spread open as if she was about to cry out for help once more, her fingernails nearly torn off from the struggle of life or death, her half twisted torso which hinted towards her last movements of desperation of trying to reach her telephone before I slit her throat from behind. As she bled out I just stared at her, knowing that she had never expected such a thing from me. The look in her eyes when I had walked into her study with that cleaver, and the panic shown on her face when I lifted it up as I neared her. I wonder what she thought of my expression? What it the same as hers or did it express the absoulute joy I had in my actions? I took a mental photo of how she looked in this moment; so unraveled and frightened yet serene and composed. She appeared so natural. I took one last glance before I picked up the messy cleaver, grabbed her head and slashed.
Slash.
Slash.
Tear.
Tear.
Slash.
Chop.
Saw.
