ATTENTION:

The following passage may or may not make sense to any of the previous or future posts on this "story". This "story" is merely a mix of exerts from the demented mind of a slightly demonic author. These paragraphs may be compared to, "a twisted, gorier version of the classic Goosebumps stories, only more mind-bottling and suspenseful," as quoted by my own mother. Most end in blood, death, or a cliff-hanger. I'm not promising that you will ever be saved from these cliff-hangers, either. So be prepared for a suspenseful climax, and then shear end, with nothing more than a cold brick wall to slam into. Kind of like jumping off a building, and expecting pavement and death, and only receiving falling for eternity. So, enough rambling. Enjoy, and please leave a review of my story or message me! =)

Blood. EVERYWHERE. Not just his blood either. His blood, her own, and those of all others she'd brutally murdered. This, is what stained her hands. Her pale, innocent looking hands. The hands of someone barely more than a mere child. Nineteen. Ha! And to think she had thought, at one time long ago in her childhood, that being nineteen would make her an adult. Oh! How she craved those years. Those happy years, when princesses and dragons existed, appearing right off the pages of her favorite, childish, storybooks. Back to the time when she could play with a dollhouse for hours by herself. Back when nothing more than a shiny object should catch her attention, she would up, and chase it, where ever it may lead. In a much happier time for herself, and those around her. When her mother shouldn't have to worry about her coming home much past curfew on school nights, or wonder why her 13 year old daughter should want to take an artillery guns-man class. Or she should have to explain to the principal why in all of the world she brought a pocket knife to school, more or less why she had attacked a teacher with it. But no, the times of fairies, knights in shining armor, and glass slippers were gone. By now, she had created a new story in the pages of a book untitled. One written, in blood...

And so, she stood. Staring at the crimson puddle surrounding her and his corpse that lie at her feet. He, had been an easy target. A simple kill. Or so it seemed. In truth, this murder had been one of the hardest she'd ever faced. Not in all of her 7 years of mass-murders, bombings, and attacks on innocent people, had she EVER felt this much remorse. Blood mixed with tears as both collided while streaming down her cheeks, creating watery-crimson droplets, like bloody rain, falling to the floor. Her jerking sobs became louder as she stared down at the pistol in her hands. The gunshot still echoed in her ears. The one to finally end his life. And as he died, instantly as the bullet pierced his skull, it felt as though a large part of her died with him. Perhaps a part she could not live without.

Sinking to the floor with a gruesome 'splash' as the puddle of blood erupted in a series of waves, she hugged her knees to her chest, and stained them with the same watery-crimson droplets as before. She ferociously gripped the handle of the pistol, now feeling a thousand times heavier than before. She dared a glance at the body, lying perhaps a few centimeters away. The sight of his corpse made her queasy. She had killed hundreds, maybe more, innocent people before. Taken childrens' lives without a second thought. But now, this one job. This one murder, made her nauseous. The smell of his blood, tangy and putrid, hit her stomach like a sack of bricks. Turning to her side just in time, she vomited violently.

Shaking after getting sick, and now with the smell of puke and fresh blood spilling throughout the small, cramped room, she could hardly take it. Now with nothing on her stomach, she chanced another glimpse of his fleshy corpse. She swallowed hard, and tried to think of him as he once was. A good man. Strong. Bold. He spoke his mind, whether his opinion be right or wrong. He stood up for what he believed in, and wasn't afraid to take pride in the smallest aspects of life. He was daring. And could probably persuade the queen of England into giving up her throne if he tried. He was a magnificent lawyer, and a great husband to his wife. A lively politician, easily making a monopoly of a debate without breaking a sweat. She tried to remember him smiling. As if he knew he was about to win a case. Or perhaps the look he gave his wife when he came home after a good day at work. She tried to remember these things, but all she could see was a dead body, killed by her own hands.

Sobbing, she put the gun, containing one, final bullet, to her own head. She'd planned this all along, and now she was ready. She took one final look at the corpse in the pool of blood on the marble floor. And she eased on the trigger, with her father's dead body, as her last sight...