"Murderer" is spelled C-R-A-Z-Y

She was bleeding beneath him.

He licked the blood off the knife like a red Popsicle and it dribbled down his chin.

“Does it hurt yet, love?” he whispered, biting her earlobe with his canine until it was punctured. Her lip was seized between her teeth and he could see crimson lining it.

“No,” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut.

He smiled wide. “Good.”

He plunged the knife into her stomach for the third time. The wounds made a small triangle just below her rib cage. He watched in sick satisfaction as her muscles clenched and her back arched, her fingernails digging into the dirt below her while it caked her clothes and hair into a matted mess.

“Scream for me,” he cooed into her ear, running the blade softly down her neck.

And she did.

She gulped down the chilly night air in an attempt to soothe her sore throat, raw from torment, but it did nothing more than hurt worse.

“Honey,” he murmured while grabbing her wrist. “You’re bleeding quite a lot.” He held the warm flesh tightly in his grasp, flipping it so that her palm was facing him. He could see the color fading from her face, her lips turning paler as the seconds ticked past.

Her eyes rolled around in her head while she panted hard, trying to restore the depleted oxygen in her lungs. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt heavy as lead. She cringed and groaned at the knife cleanly slicing away the tender skin of her wrist. Blood poured over his hands and onto her shirt.

“Are you going…to kill…me…?” she gasped when he slid the knife down her leg just hard enough to break the jean material and skin that lay beneath.

“No,” he whispered plainly. He took her trembling hands into his bloody ones, wrapping her fingers around the handle of the blade. “You are going to kill you.”

Fear flashed in her eyes, but before she could summon up enough strength to stop him, he shoved the knife down.

Right through her left breast.

She cried out, wriggling feebly under the knife that pinned her to the ground before lying very still. Darkness poured in on her and she couldn’t escape it.

He chuckled and twisted the knife, laughing louder at the blood that squirted out at him. “‘It’s all your fault’; I can hear you say it. ‘Jay, it’s all your fault. You did this to me. It’s always been your fault.’” 

He tugged the blade from her body and wiped the crimson on her tattered jeans. “Well darling, I’m sorry to say that it’s not my fault. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because, guess what?”

He burst from laughter, clutching his stomach as tears filled his eyes. “You’re dead!”

-----------------------

Yeah, the title kind of sucks, but oh well. 

 I can't remember what state of mind I was when I wrote this, but I do know it wasn't recent. Almost a year at this point I would imagine. Maybe I was having some crazy dreams. And maybe I was just channeling the inner-psycho that was brought out while watching The Uninvited. Who knows. Those darn scary movies don't scare me; they make me scary. Interesting how that works.

See? Looney bin.

Ta~

-Vicki