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musetrash2009-06-28 09:52 am
twodaysinblood.livejournal.com) wrote in musetrash2009-06-28 09:52 am
Entry tags:
a death
The girl was beautiful; Brian could appreciate that.
Her long legs, their dusting of freckles and fine hair, the musculature of her delicate calves standing out as her toes curled, the tensing of the tight tendon running wire-taut on the inside of her rounded thigh. Her arms held just away from her sides were a mix of soft skin on the underbelly and elbows that were rough against his palm. Against the thick restraints cutting into her flesh, her wrists and hands seemed petite, the fingernails rounded, small and manicured; each one carefully painted a different color.
Brian ghosted his fingertips over her stomach. He smiled to himself as her stomach tightened like a drum, the flat skin between her hip-bones tensing and twisting as she gasped and sobbed at the touch. The collarbones stood out under the skin, and he drew two light fingers along one covered clavicle. She swallowed, he felt her oesophagus move under the skin.
He looked her over, objective now. She had done nothing to deserve death, but then again, she hadn't done much to deserve life either. She would die, and he would feel something for a while.
Moving away from the bloodstained steel table, he found his tools. One convulsive slash of the knife across her throat, ear to ear, wide and gaping and dangerous; exsangination. Bleed out. All that blood, hot, sticky, gushing out into a bucket as the table tipped her upside down, drying in her hair, on the metal, on the floor.
At least it wouldn't touch him. Not until he was ready. He was in control now. He was the monster with the chainsaw, he held the power of life and more importantly, of death. The knife was poised and she sobbed out Please as if that would stop him, halt the fall of his killing stroke. It wouldn't. Nothing would. Nothing ever would.
The blood rushed thin and red and silky-wet from the cut, and he bared his teeth involuntarily as the drops fell on his arm, above the glove, before he could pull away. She choked, bubbles of air spurting through her wound, bubbles of blood surging from her mouth as she coughed out words that were drowned so completely by the redness.
He was breathing heavily now. Shaking hands, he set the hydraulics hauling her body up; watched as her pain-filled eyes stuttered closed. She was done. So was he, for now. Walking unsteadily, he left the room, left the body strung up, closed and bolted the door to the freezer-room. He would come back when she was dry, her blood neatly filling that bucket, vacated her body for good.
He would come back, and he would cut and saw and bind and prepare; his brother needed him.
Her long legs, their dusting of freckles and fine hair, the musculature of her delicate calves standing out as her toes curled, the tensing of the tight tendon running wire-taut on the inside of her rounded thigh. Her arms held just away from her sides were a mix of soft skin on the underbelly and elbows that were rough against his palm. Against the thick restraints cutting into her flesh, her wrists and hands seemed petite, the fingernails rounded, small and manicured; each one carefully painted a different color.
Brian ghosted his fingertips over her stomach. He smiled to himself as her stomach tightened like a drum, the flat skin between her hip-bones tensing and twisting as she gasped and sobbed at the touch. The collarbones stood out under the skin, and he drew two light fingers along one covered clavicle. She swallowed, he felt her oesophagus move under the skin.
He looked her over, objective now. She had done nothing to deserve death, but then again, she hadn't done much to deserve life either. She would die, and he would feel something for a while.
Moving away from the bloodstained steel table, he found his tools. One convulsive slash of the knife across her throat, ear to ear, wide and gaping and dangerous; exsangination. Bleed out. All that blood, hot, sticky, gushing out into a bucket as the table tipped her upside down, drying in her hair, on the metal, on the floor.
At least it wouldn't touch him. Not until he was ready. He was in control now. He was the monster with the chainsaw, he held the power of life and more importantly, of death. The knife was poised and she sobbed out Please as if that would stop him, halt the fall of his killing stroke. It wouldn't. Nothing would. Nothing ever would.
The blood rushed thin and red and silky-wet from the cut, and he bared his teeth involuntarily as the drops fell on his arm, above the glove, before he could pull away. She choked, bubbles of air spurting through her wound, bubbles of blood surging from her mouth as she coughed out words that were drowned so completely by the redness.
He was breathing heavily now. Shaking hands, he set the hydraulics hauling her body up; watched as her pain-filled eyes stuttered closed. She was done. So was he, for now. Walking unsteadily, he left the room, left the body strung up, closed and bolted the door to the freezer-room. He would come back when she was dry, her blood neatly filling that bucket, vacated her body for good.
He would come back, and he would cut and saw and bind and prepare; his brother needed him.