In a lost apartment above an infamous meat shop there was a book of razors, untouched by hands for over a decade. They didn't rust for they are pure silver. Today, their dusty bodies come out of a sleep, for their master has come home. They feel their master's strokes, and if they could, they'd shiver in delight. But for now, they reflect a bleak light from the oversized window of a London view.
Heat from the water made the kettle start to whistle... the sides vibrated with tension. All of a sudden a hand grasped the handle and hit the fraud, Perelli, with the heated, iron end. Blood made the kettle extricate a sizzling noise. Again and again the owner of the hand hit the man with it, not even making a dent on it's smooth surface. With every hit, the less tension was inside of it, relieving whatever feelings of anguish it could ever have.
The air swooshes through the loose sleeve of the white shirt, letting the wearer move freely. The sleeve, a semi-rough cotton material, brushes against the skin of man thought dead. As the man groans, the owner of the shirt steps behind him and with a glint of light, has blood pouring from the man's neck. That blood taints the pure whiteness of the sleeve.
When the owner realizes he has blood on the sleeve, it senses his intent look of desperation. The man covers the sleeve with a jean jacket, encaging its freedom. It suffocates without being alive.
The box of razors feels the presence of the man, and knows that a bloodied razor will soon arrive within its enclosure of peace. Sure enough, the man puts a razor in. The darkness inside the box hugs all the razors, the soft pouches that the razors sit in caress the stinging metal. The box itself awaits the man to open it up and take one of its disciples of silver.
Silver... light... stinging.... blood.... screams... the blades will never get accustomed to the sensation of cutting human flesh... It's like putting your finger into jell-o. That pushing through something that's semi-solid feeling. It never gets old.
On one side of the glass, cool air presses against it; on the other, warm air full of deceit and cruel intentions. The glass feels the anger and voice of a man yelling, "Benjamin Barker!" Soon after, blood sprays onto the window, splattering in odd patterns. Anger, pain, fear; they are all emotions the window can feel against it.
Being held by the little boy, the razor cries out a lament as it realizes the boy's intentions. It regrets its sharpness, the fact that it's killing its master, an owner of exceptional caregiving. And once again, those razors lie dormant, asleep in their little box. The kettle gathers dust, never to be used for tea again. And the shirt, splattered with blood, waves in the air, never to be touched by the man's skin again. Mrs. Lovett's Meatshop is closed forever; Sweeney Todd's barber shop will never see a customer.
A/N: Ramble, ramble, ramble.... Because I'm so cool, I'm doing this challenge.... /topic/45961/6630448/1/ Muhahaha, but, umm.... It probably won't make any sense because I haven't watched the movie since forever ago, so this is off by memory..