Red was her favourite colour. She looked painfully good in red. With dark hair cascading past her shoulders and her face stretched in a content smile, she slowly moved to the soothing words of John Mayer. She loved this song, and she could never resist breaking into moves. Her eyes were closed as her body swayed from side to side. The dim lights fell on her face oddly, almost distorting it, but one could tell from a mile that she was happily grinning.
A small whimper broke the beautiful reverie she was in. And suddenly, her face wasn’t smiling anymore. It had somehow transformed into something less humane, and more monstrous. And, in fact she seemed less than unhappy to be disturbed.
Slowly, she walked over to the vinyl player and paused the record. The only sound that could be heard now was heavy breathing. She picked up the silver knife next to the player, and an old cloth nearby. She started wiping the blade clean and, that’s when she heard it again. The same, pitiful whimper. Her eyes drew to the figure lying on the cold floor. If it weren’t for the small groans of agony every once in awhile, nobody could have noticed the person before, not with the music playing in the background. A lifeless smile replaced her perviously worn menacing scowl.
“Look at you, all weak and vulnerable,” she drawled, mockingly. “Even John Mayer couldn’t make you smile, could he? Such a shame, this used to be your favourite song.” The lifeless figure on the floor shivered a little, and as they did so, a little blood gushed out of their stomach. Hands and legs tied and cuffed to the nearby table, they couldn’t move even if they had all the strength in the world. The lady walked a little closer to the figure, and it was clear as day, that the person lying down was a man. His auburn hair was matted with blood and sweat alike. There was a seemingly large wound on his temple, and dried blood all over his face. His eyes were a combination of fear and trepidation. The woman bent down and pressed her finger over the freshly gushed blood. He winced in pain, and she smirked, clearly enjoying. Then, she slowly rubbed the blood all over her neck. She brought the knife closer to his eyes and smiled when she saw him shut his’ with horror. She loved this.
“You know what I’m going to do now, baby, don’t you?” She said as she slid her knife over his chest.
“Please, please don’t hurt me.” His voice was laced with pain and dread, and was a meek whisper. “I promise I won’t tell anyone about you if you let me go.”
She laughed like a maniac. “Oh sweetie, you really think I’ll let you go?” She bent down so close that her lips were almost touching his ears. “I think we’ve both established here that letting you go isn’t my strongest suit.”
And with that said, she plunged the knife into his chest, and started carving. Despite the exhaustion and pain, he couldn’t keep his screams down. To shut him up, she pushed the knife deeper and he almost drifted into unconsciousness. And, for the next four minutes she continued cutting and carving his body, as if she were Michelangelo and he, the sculpture of David. When she could feel him giving up, she bent down again and kissed his lips for a closure and then, against his lips, whispered, “I hope you remember me in hell.”
She dipped her fingers in his blood and started rubbing it all over her, her face, her neck, her chest, everywhere. She looked painfully good in red. It was her favourite colour.