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Description
Blood dripped from her mangled frame onto the floor, tainting the carpet she was carefully placed on. Her torso was twisted hideously, legs sticking out at abnormal angles, face contorted in terror, eyes wide, cheeks tearstained, mouth gaping in a silent plea for salvation.
Singing a soft lullaby, he stroked her matted crimson hair like a loving mother would her child. The pillow cushioning her head was bloody, a stark contrast to the original clean white. He smiled to himself, rising to admire his work. Walking over her body, he made his way to the table against the wall to retrieve his camera. He had bought a new reel of film earlier that afternoon when he was grocery shopping with his mother and younger sister. He had been saving this final shot, resisting temptation to finish the reel. He knew this last picture would be worth the wait.
From his bag, he took out a tube of lipstick, one shade darker than the blood seeping from her wounds. Sauntering to her violated cadaver, he gently held her small face in his gloved hands, applying the lipstick meticulously to her blood caked lips.
Getting to his feet, he positioned the camera so the fluorescent light hit her young body, stripped of innocence, raw from the satanic symbols etched into her skin. The muted click of the camera echoed in the hushed room but he could still hear the nine year olds pitiful screams as he carved his hatred for life on his canvas, her soft pink flesh.
He shook his head, displacing the sound from his brain. As the voice retreated to the depths of his mind, it was replaced by another, instructing him to go to the bathroom. Stopping short of the entrance, he tiptoed through the door, cautiously avoiding the blood on the floor and door-frame. He kneeled over the bathtub, filled to the brink, contemplating whether sticking his arm into the red water would make him feel like gnawing it off. Opportunity presented itself in a flash of blond. Seizing his chance, he shoved his hand into the filth, grabbing the strand and yanking with all his strength. A corpse emerged from the grime, but he had pulled too hard.
The body dropped into its murky prison once more as he was pitched backwards. He looked at the uprooted strand of hair in his hand, then, realizing his surroundings, he lurched to his feet, running at the tub, shrieking viciously. Thrusting his upper half into the water, he heaved the mother’s soiled frame onto the tiles. He stared at her lifeless eyes, voicing his rage in bouts of bloodthirsty howls.
He kicked the mother’s body and looked at his reflection. His hair was bedraggled, his shirt crumpled, face splattered with blood. Snarling at the mirror, he washed his hands furiously. He growled at the image mimicking his actions. It was relentlessly harassing him. Glowering, he smashed the mirror, sneering at the shattered remains.
His temple started to throb violently, the menacing voice had returned to haunt him. He groped the counter blindly for his medication, but in the process of searching, he knocked over a glass candle holder, jumping at the noise.
The voice was getting louder as he thrashed wildly for his neuroleptics. Finding them, he swallowed one from the full bottle, washing it down with tap water. Instantly, the talking in his skull ceased. Relieved, he sighed, leaning on the sink, staring at the broken mirror. In one shard, he witnessed a memory of the heinous crime he had committed. He swiveled around, eyes darting wildly, breath coming in short gasps.
He let out a cry of anguish as he caught sight of the mother’s cadaver. Falling by her side, he supported her fractured neck, cradling her head close to his heart.
Still holding on to the pills, he lifted her battered body tenderly, carrying her away, praying his other sin was a hallucination.
The mother fell from his arms as he saw the nine year olds naked, chiseled body. He clutched his source of redemption tighter, shivering, from fear and disgust at himself. As the bottle was opened, his quivering hand relaxed. He took each of the pills, popping them into his mouth mechanically until there were none left.
Suddenly, he started to shake uncontrollably. His saviour slipped from his grasp as he surrendered himself to the vigorous convulsions. Stumbling forward, he attempted to take hold of the table but ended up pulling it down with him. A frame fell to the ground.
He lay, both consumed by the taunting shadows encircling him and filled by the warmth of his rectifying suicide. Under his clothes, his naked torso writhed with pain. His heart swelled, body shook, tears burning his eyes.
His hand gripped the frame, which he lifted up to see. The photograph imprinted itself in his mind as he lost control of his physical form. His hand landed on the floor with a thud while the shadows laughter resonated within his brain.
He wept, begging for mercy, willing the image to flee his mind. Guilt overwhelmed him causing him to plummet into darkness. The little girl and her mother were smiling with him at their side in the picture, their loving brother and son.

Description
Blood dripped from her mangled frame onto the floor, tainting the carpet she was carefully placed on. Her torso was twisted hideously, legs sticking out at abnormal angles, face contorted in terror, eyes wide, cheeks tearstained, mouth gaping in a silent plea for salvation.
Singing a soft lullaby, he stroked her matted crimson hair like a loving mother would her child. The pillow cushioning her head was bloody, a stark contrast to the original clean white. He smiled to himself, rising to admire his work. Walking over her body, he made his way to the table against the wall to retrieve his camera. He had bought a new reel of film earlier that afternoon when he was grocery shopping with his mother and younger sister. He had been saving this final shot, resisting temptation to finish the reel. He knew this last picture would be worth the wait.
From his bag, he took out a tube of lipstick, one shade darker than the blood seeping from her wounds. Sauntering to her violated cadaver, he gently held her small face in his gloved hands, applying the lipstick meticulously to her blood caked lips.
Getting to his feet, he positioned the camera so the fluorescent light hit her young body, stripped of innocence, raw from the satanic symbols etched into her skin. The muted click of the camera echoed in the hushed room but he could still hear the nine year olds pitiful screams as he carved his hatred for life on his canvas, her soft pink flesh.
He shook his head, displacing the sound from his brain. As the voice retreated to the depths of his mind, it was replaced by another, instructing him to go to the bathroom. Stopping short of the entrance, he tiptoed through the door, cautiously avoiding the blood on the floor and door-frame. He kneeled over the bathtub, filled to the brink, contemplating whether sticking his arm into the red water would make him feel like gnawing it off. Opportunity presented itself in a flash of blond. Seizing his chance, he shoved his hand into the filth, grabbing the strand and yanking with all his strength. A corpse emerged from the grime, but he had pulled too hard.
The body dropped into its murky prison once more as he was pitched backwards. He looked at the uprooted strand of hair in his hand, then, realizing his surroundings, he lurched to his feet, running at the tub, shrieking viciously. Thrusting his upper half into the water, he heaved the mother’s soiled frame onto the tiles. He stared at her lifeless eyes, voicing his rage in bouts of bloodthirsty howls.
He kicked the mother’s body and looked at his reflection. His hair was bedraggled, his shirt crumpled, face splattered with blood. Snarling at the mirror, he washed his hands furiously. He growled at the image mimicking his actions. It was relentlessly harassing him. Glowering, he smashed the mirror, sneering at the shattered remains.
His temple started to throb violently, the menacing voice had returned to haunt him. He groped the counter blindly for his medication, but in the process of searching, he knocked over a glass candle holder, jumping at the noise.
The voice was getting louder as he thrashed wildly for his neuroleptics. Finding them, he swallowed one from the full bottle, washing it down with tap water. Instantly, the talking in his skull ceased. Relieved, he sighed, leaning on the sink, staring at the broken mirror. In one shard, he witnessed a memory of the heinous crime he had committed. He swiveled around, eyes darting wildly, breath coming in short gasps.
He let out a cry of anguish as he caught sight of the mother’s cadaver. Falling by her side, he supported her fractured neck, cradling her head close to his heart.
Still holding on to the pills, he lifted her battered body tenderly, carrying her away, praying his other sin was a hallucination.
The mother fell from his arms as he saw the nine year olds naked, chiseled body. He clutched his source of redemption tighter, shivering, from fear and disgust at himself. As the bottle was opened, his quivering hand relaxed. He took each of the pills, popping them into his mouth mechanically until there were none left.
Suddenly, he started to shake uncontrollably. His saviour slipped from his grasp as he surrendered himself to the vigorous convulsions. Stumbling forward, he attempted to take hold of the table but ended up pulling it down with him. A frame fell to the ground.
He lay, both consumed by the taunting shadows encircling him and filled by the warmth of his rectifying suicide. Under his clothes, his naked torso writhed with pain. His heart swelled, body shook, tears burning his eyes.
His hand gripped the frame, which he lifted up to see. The photograph imprinted itself in his mind as he lost control of his physical form. His hand landed on the floor with a thud while the shadows laughter resonated within his brain.
He wept, begging for mercy, willing the image to flee his mind. Guilt overwhelmed him causing him to plummet into darkness. The little girl and her mother were smiling with him at their side in the picture, their loving brother and son.