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Blood runs cold.
Eyes roll back and close.
Skin turns a pasty, pale white.
Veins become a visible blue.
Limbs become taut and rigid.
The wound succeeded in life, causing its purpose... death.
A young girl stared at the stained floor and the unmoving body.
She cried out and dropped to her knees.
She thought of only one thing.
Who'd do that type of thing to someone?
She took in every red, crusted hole in the chest.
Every drop of blood that pulsed from them.
She saw the ripped flesh laying open to her once innocent eyes.
Flies swarmed the corpse and prepared it for harvest breeding.
The corpse's once blonde hair was now bleached with crimson.
The abdomen was slashed open, revealing its entrails.
The young girl thinks two, maybe three days ago this happened.
She's in shock now as she looks down at her hands.
They, too, were stained with blood, as was the dress she wore.
A knife lay at her feet, dried blood covering its blade.
He had attacked her, she had no choice.
Or did she?
No, he would've killed her.
She was tired of suffering from his abuse.
His life won't be the only thing haunting her dreams.
For his corpse is now embedded in her thoughts.
She'll never forget how she'd tortured him like he'd
once done to her.
"It won't hurt if you just stay still," he'd say. "Just don't fight me."
"No!" She'd scream.
But he wouldn't let her voice stop him.
She felt sick to her stomach at the memories, then
towards the overwhelming stench of the dead body that
had now consumed her.
She'd tried to call the police, but no one listened.
She didn't want to die, so she knew he had to.
So he did... at the fault of her hand.