Even from outside the house, sounds of her cries for help were audible. A key was turned, and followed shortly after by the door, through which woman in a suit walked in casually. Her hair was straight and pink, and from a distance, that would be her most distinguishing factor. But there was a certain light in her eyes, a fire which was so brightly lit it seemed to be impossible to extinguish. It was shocking and unforgettable. She adjusted her tie, as if she had to make a good impression on the woman who lay upon the kitchen counter, half naked, crying, and bound to the counter by ropes, intricately knotted together. Smiling, she asked, "Did you miss me?" In reply, the woman could all but release a long string of vulgarities. Shaking her head, the woman sighed.

"What utter distasteful language from a lady."

She grabbed a knife from the drawer with a tissue and pursed her lips as she surveyed the woman's body. He let her eyes wander upon her smooth delicate skin, and then the faint white lines where she clearly remembered painting her skin, which she took for a canvas, with the dark and opaque crimson blood of her own. The knife slit open the skin on her abdomen enough to make her scream. She chuckled to himself, loving her little social experiment. Most people would have given up by now, but this victim was still struggling for survival, still susceptible to the pain of a knife – still hopeful. And yet the only factor that separated her from all the others was that she was allowed to scream. She was allowed to call for help. She was given a path where she had a chance of escape, and it gave her a hope that evidently would not relinquish.

Limit everything and their hope is limited along with it. Fear would continue to propel this hope and eventually draining every drop of hope out of her would be so much more rewarding, Pinkie thought to herself, keeping this in mind for future victims.

The shrieks and desperate cries for a savior were orgasmic. Desperation punctured every single syllable, the cries translating to tears which sprung from her eyes. She enjoyed the view thoroughly, though she was very careful with the knife. She took care not to use it too deeply – she wouldn't want anything irreversible done to her. Not yet. By now, the crimson blood had formed a line. No wait- 2 letters: PP.

Pinkie Pie.

"Let's how you do in your final moments shall we?"

Pinkie grabbed the knife in her hand and raised the knife high above the victim. The victim didn't scream, but braced herself for her final seconds on the planet. She clenched her fists tightly and shut her eyelids as the knife came down so fast upon her chest, but all she felt was a slight coldness where her heart lay.

"Is that it? Am I dead?" She pondered.

To check, she opened her eyes, but all she saw was Pinkie, who stared at her, and the knife which only rested on her heart. Confused, she wondered if she should wonder why the knife wasn't inches deep in her heart already. Just then, the knife came forcibly down, and the victim didn't have enough time to even change her expression. She died, puzzled, as did all the other victims.

Pinkie shrugged and proceeded to pour the blood which gushed generously out of her heart into a wine glass. She recalled the previous kills, for which she controlled their final expressions and could as well as read their final thoughts – just as she did with this one. From the young boy who she captured on his birthday to the terminally ill patient, she realized that no matter how much one person thinks he or she is prepared to die, there'll always be at least a bit of hope that screams to have a longer life or a better death – there'll always be hope in everyone to steal away.