It's my art. My latest sculpture, a bloody concoction of flesh and bones. I stand and admire it, splattered in the crimson essence of life. My fist, gripping a sliver of steel, is marked with the lacerations of a day's hard work. I don't bother wearing gloves, there's no reason to hide my identity. Because I don't exist.
Smiling wickedly, I find the mouth (or what's left of it), and pull out all four of the canines as tokens of my accomplishment. I slip them into a vial in the pocket of my soaked coat. Taking a final look over my shoulder, I re-read the message, scrawled in blood on the white walls.
I left the small apartment, satisfied. Stepping out into the street, I didn't even get a glance from the passing people. Clad in blood-spattered clothing, I disappear into the night.
DrasBrisingr · Tue Apr 19, 2005 @ 01:22am · 1 Comments |