I always felt that word to be underestimated.
Murder.
See, it’s unsettling but not…right.
My perfect murder isn’t even the murder itself, it’s how I will remember the details of my act. Of course it will be an act of love. I couldn’t go out with the love of my life. I was bound to break our relationship so I broke her bones before she could break me.
My perfect murder isn’t an action. It’s a...
I scurry from the cage as soon as it is opened, but they grab me before I get too far. My hooves are reduced to useless stumps as they grab me, string me up, ignoring my pleas. They don’t speak my language anyway; never have. My parents used to tell us stories about people like this and here I am now, following in their footsteps. To be slaughtered. They mock me, laughing. I am nothing more than a...
What is a perfect murder?
Is it a ruthless killing?
A killing where the red blinds you?
Sinuses filled with blood and gore?
A world painted crimson?
Sinuew and cracking bone?
Or..
Is it loud?
Screams which tear through then night?
Screams which break the wine glasses?
A spiderwebbing crack?
Or…
Is it a quiet death?
Premeditated and stealthy?
A slightly cloudy scotch on the rocks?
Peacefull...
I’ve got nothing left, I am nothing, I’ve always been nothing. Like you said, I might as well not even be around.
Now that she’s in the ground, it’s where I belong, too. She was pretty, she was nice, she was charismatic, I was always the hanger on, the third wheel.
I’m wretched and decaying. I’m miserable and cringe to be around. You said it; I finally heard you. I believe you, you’re right. Let...
He stared at her as she slowly, with a trembling hand, took the paper from his hand.
His heart was racing, the horrors of the last hour replaying on double speed in his mind.
Her eyes were wide, and for a second he saw years of terror in her eyes, like this had happened to her many a time.
Her face hardened, and now she was void of emotion.
“I-I’m sorry for your loss-“ His voice cracke...
she went to the edge of the dock
at lake champlain
i stayed back
about fifty feet away
and
watched as the wind
blew her blonde hair,
dirty blonde,
into her face
and she put her hood up
from her grey sweatshirt
and i watched her grey sweatshirt
wrinkle back and forth
back and forth
and she stared out at the water
and the wind picked up
more and more
more ...
It needs to be a perfect family to be a perfect murder. To be completely unexpected and unique. It mustb't trace back to anyone. Make it become a full circle moment if you want it to be perfect you need to be perfect and have no flaws. Let go of what you want and do what you can. Aim for the right spots the vessels in whihc blod stops not a spot in which it flows. You need to be fast and clean. It...
You like the photographs? I’m glad. I should really bring them out more; it’s no use for them to sit here collecting dust. Which one do you have there?
Oh, that’s one of my favorites. No, I don’t think it’s a fake. If it is, then I suppose my memory is just as unreliable as my husband says it is. I remember that woman. Daphne, her name was. Or was it Dorothy?
Forgive me, it was so long...
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