all rights reserved. do not steal. thank you. c:
to the scholastic judges: please do not think that this is plagiarised. :p
[ poshumous acclaim ]
The wild beat of some dance song -- its title he did not know, much less care to know of -- radiated through the walls and from beneath the floor of the four-storey mansion. He could feel the vibration of the beat under his feet, and he could hear the sound of glass clinking against one another as the crowd grumbled in sotto voce.
Formal dinner party.
He couldn't care less about what was happening on the ground floor. He was far too pre-occupied with the bloody scene laid before him, as the previous similar ones always made him.
A twisted smile danced across his lips as he watched the crimson blood on his pocket-knife drip to the carpeted floor, making instant enemies with the angelic white rug. He licked his cracked lips.
"Perfection," he thought, a rampant adrenaline rush coursing through his body as he gawked at her, the eager glint in his eyes scintillating like stars in the night sky.
He tilted his head to the side, examining his newest work of art.
"Lips, nose, cheek..." he muttered to himself, ticking off a list of what has been 'perfected' in his mind. He frowned as his eyes met hers, disappointment clear in his crow's feet. "...this isn't right." The tip of his knife met with pale flesh. The recipient of the knife's end jerked back, but the restraints that bound the tortured soul could only move so much.
"P-please..."
A whisper.
"Don't."
A desperate plea.
He turned his face away from the poor thing and looked out the window.
The full moon was a clear white, but the stars in the night sky weren't as bright as they had been the last time he had checked.
"Pl-"
"Shut up!" Anger laced his voice. He jammed his knife in his victim's right eye socket, gouging the eyeball out as if it were a scoop of ice cream.
"Ugh!" he grunted, flinging his blood-stained knife to the floor. "She's not perfect anymore. She will never be perfect." he mumbled to himself, looking over at the still corpse just inches away from him with a disgusted look on his face.
His work of art was now a work of ruin.
'You idiot!' a voice in his head lambasted. 'What were you thinking, gouging her eyeball out? She will never-'
"She'll never be perfect. I know." he interrupted, sighing as he ruffled his hand through his dark hair. He stood up. The speakers downstairs had switched to play yet another upbeat tone. He paced towards the corpse. It oozed out blood from its wounds, looking as if it were a gory massacre started by the Devil himself.
He inched closer, and with each step he took, he felt his heart beating faster and faster. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end at what he saw.
Black blood.
Before his mind could register what was happening, the corpse sprang back to life, in sync with the dance music downstairs. The corpse cocked its head to the side, the gaping hole where its eye should be staring straight at the man - her killer.
