Worst.Username.Ever
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Yeah, I'm not the best writer in the world as people I RP with will be aware of. My charries are also kinda...Yeah...But I've wrote something and even though it's short, pretty choppy and in general really, really needs work I'm actually kind of pleased with it. I don't know what else is gonna happen in this, I don't even know if this is a chapter or introduction or what. Oh well.
WARNING: You might get a bit disturbed. I kind of disturbed myself writing it. You've been warned.
Cynthia
Death is contagious. Some people fear it, some people crave for it, some just see it as a natural way of life. "Going home" as that Mother Teresa person said. Life is just a temporarily state. It can be extended with a healthy diet, a minimal amount of stress and maybe medication. There're also a lot of ways to shorten it. A hell of a lot. Either way you live your life, it has to end some time. So at the end of the day, no matter how much you try to avoid it, we're all going to end up six feet under with any one who likes you mourning the loss of your pointless existence.
Death is often referred to as "The Grim Reaper", a skeleton guy in a cloak who decides when it's time. Cynthia Green's time was near Christmas, when she'd just thirteen. Oh dear. So young.
Cynthia Green was a pretty girl. They say "beauty is in the eyes of the beholder" but in Cynthia's case the beauty was probably in the eyes of every beholder. She was staring up at me with her own large, brown eyes. I couldn't tell whether they were full of love or not. She kept fluttering her long black eyelashes and smiling in this sickly sweet way. She had a smooth slim arms around a boy's waist. The boy was about her age but quite a bit taller and skinnier. Cynthia was more or less the most popular girl in her grade. The boy, me, was more or less the school freak. She was only there for a laugh. Probably as a dare. Beauty and the Beast, they all said. She could have liked me deep down or she could have hated me. I couldn't tell. I just felt like going along with the joke for the crack. And now I had the little slut on her own.
I ran a hand through her hair. It was nice hair. Auburn. Soft as silk. I met her gaze. If she was feeling any love whatsoever I didn't feel it back. I didn't feel hate. I didn't feel anything for her. I felt around in my pocket with my free hand while I wrapped my other arm around her waist. She still fluttered her eyelashes. Still smiled her sickly sweet smile. My grip around her tightened as I pulled out a distinctive object. Cynthia's eyes suddenly widened with fear.
"Psycho, don't, please," she begged. She tried to wriggle free but it wasn't any use. I kept staring at her. I knew what I was about to do wasn't a good idea. I would have gotten found out eventually. Things like this don't stay under wraps for long.
I pressed my dagger into her throat. I was the one smiling now. Not sweetly like her. Menacingly. Maniacally. Cynthia closed her eyes, tears spilling down her foundation-smothered cheeks. She looked like she was trying to say something, but the only thing I could make out was "Please."
I drew the dagger across her throat so blood spilled down her designer t-shirt. She stiffened in my arms, screaming. Then she went silent, becoming limp. I let go and let her flop to the ground. I wiped my bloody hands on my jeans and looked down.
She was peaceful. Dead, messy but in complete peace. No stupid fluttering eye lashes. No smile. Just completely still, eyes closed. It was if she was just asleep in a pool of blood.
Cynthia had a lot of friends and family. They were going to miss her. I'd taken her away from them and given her over to the reaper. I should have felt something. Guilt, fear, anguish. I kept on staring at her but I still couldn't feel any of these. I just stayed completely motionless like some kind of robot. I shrugged, sighing then picked up my dagger. I wiped the blood off it with my shirt then put it back in my pocket. I knelt down next to the girl, stroking her hair again. It wasn't so soft now. It was more course now. Matted together with blood. I straightened up and wiped my hands on my jeans one more time then turned away and walked off, leaving her.
I hadn't bothered. Even if I did, as I said, they'd find out eventually. They'd find out it was me. I'd be banged up for life. But as I felt the abandoned house we'd been hanging around in and walked casually down the street thinking about this, you know what I felt?
That's right. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Quite frankly, I didn't give two *****.
WARNING: You might get a bit disturbed. I kind of disturbed myself writing it. You've been warned.
Cynthia
Death is contagious. Some people fear it, some people crave for it, some just see it as a natural way of life. "Going home" as that Mother Teresa person said. Life is just a temporarily state. It can be extended with a healthy diet, a minimal amount of stress and maybe medication. There're also a lot of ways to shorten it. A hell of a lot. Either way you live your life, it has to end some time. So at the end of the day, no matter how much you try to avoid it, we're all going to end up six feet under with any one who likes you mourning the loss of your pointless existence.
Death is often referred to as "The Grim Reaper", a skeleton guy in a cloak who decides when it's time. Cynthia Green's time was near Christmas, when she'd just thirteen. Oh dear. So young.
Cynthia Green was a pretty girl. They say "beauty is in the eyes of the beholder" but in Cynthia's case the beauty was probably in the eyes of every beholder. She was staring up at me with her own large, brown eyes. I couldn't tell whether they were full of love or not. She kept fluttering her long black eyelashes and smiling in this sickly sweet way. She had a smooth slim arms around a boy's waist. The boy was about her age but quite a bit taller and skinnier. Cynthia was more or less the most popular girl in her grade. The boy, me, was more or less the school freak. She was only there for a laugh. Probably as a dare. Beauty and the Beast, they all said. She could have liked me deep down or she could have hated me. I couldn't tell. I just felt like going along with the joke for the crack. And now I had the little slut on her own.
I ran a hand through her hair. It was nice hair. Auburn. Soft as silk. I met her gaze. If she was feeling any love whatsoever I didn't feel it back. I didn't feel hate. I didn't feel anything for her. I felt around in my pocket with my free hand while I wrapped my other arm around her waist. She still fluttered her eyelashes. Still smiled her sickly sweet smile. My grip around her tightened as I pulled out a distinctive object. Cynthia's eyes suddenly widened with fear.
"Psycho, don't, please," she begged. She tried to wriggle free but it wasn't any use. I kept staring at her. I knew what I was about to do wasn't a good idea. I would have gotten found out eventually. Things like this don't stay under wraps for long.
I pressed my dagger into her throat. I was the one smiling now. Not sweetly like her. Menacingly. Maniacally. Cynthia closed her eyes, tears spilling down her foundation-smothered cheeks. She looked like she was trying to say something, but the only thing I could make out was "Please."
I drew the dagger across her throat so blood spilled down her designer t-shirt. She stiffened in my arms, screaming. Then she went silent, becoming limp. I let go and let her flop to the ground. I wiped my bloody hands on my jeans and looked down.
She was peaceful. Dead, messy but in complete peace. No stupid fluttering eye lashes. No smile. Just completely still, eyes closed. It was if she was just asleep in a pool of blood.
Cynthia had a lot of friends and family. They were going to miss her. I'd taken her away from them and given her over to the reaper. I should have felt something. Guilt, fear, anguish. I kept on staring at her but I still couldn't feel any of these. I just stayed completely motionless like some kind of robot. I shrugged, sighing then picked up my dagger. I wiped the blood off it with my shirt then put it back in my pocket. I knelt down next to the girl, stroking her hair again. It wasn't so soft now. It was more course now. Matted together with blood. I straightened up and wiped my hands on my jeans one more time then turned away and walked off, leaving her.
I hadn't bothered. Even if I did, as I said, they'd find out eventually. They'd find out it was me. I'd be banged up for life. But as I felt the abandoned house we'd been hanging around in and walked casually down the street thinking about this, you know what I felt?
That's right. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Quite frankly, I didn't give two *****.
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