My nails are red, almost like they’ve been dipped in blood. Probably his blood. It’s a
comforting day dream really, thinking of all the blood being drained from his body and put into a
tiny bottle just for me, so I can paint my nails.
Also in my day dream a funeral will be held for him. I’ll attend this funeral, and stand
over his pasty, funeral made-up body, with a smile playing at my lips. I’ll caress his cold, lifeless
cheek, my blood red nails clashing with the tinted grey colour of his skin. I’ll look over at his
family, they’ll of course be weeping and crying, dabbing at the corners of their eyes lightly, so
not to smudge their make up. My glare will pierce them all, and in that instant they’ll know that
their son did something to me, and that what I do next is perfectly reasonable.
I’ll produce that tiny bottle of crimson life from my black clutch and I’ll open the bottle.
And then slowly, carefully, savouring every second, I’ll pour the blood onto his crisp, snow white
shirt in the shape of a heart. The blood shockingly white against the pure white.
I’ll then walk away from his casket, my head held high, my expression stone cold, and
walk out the doors into the brilliant sunlight, never once turning to look back.
Yes, this is a very comforting day dream.