Denial
She wasn't crazy.
She wasn't insane.
Why did people think that? Her mental health was fine. There was nothing insane about her at all!
So what if she liked blood. So what if she liked to carve out peoples hearts just to see their filthy blood drain from their arteries, sliding down her arms, clashing with her milky white skin, falling to the floor. Dripping.
She liked torture – no she loved torture, every single one of the deserved it, filthy blood, traitors. They all deserved the pain, the mind-breaking, skin crawling pain. The fire that ripped through their bodies. Screaming. Screaming. Always screaming, Screaming out the truth, reviling every one of their sordid lies.
She clung to the bars in her cell, the rusty, black bars lined the small window. So small even she, who was nothing but skin and bones, couldn't break free. It looked out on to the rough sea. Sea; the one thing she couldn't control. Oh, how she detested the sea, it was loud and blocked out all of the wonderful screams coming from the other cells.
She should be the one making them scream. When she got out of here - and she would one day - she was going to find the man who put her here and she was going to kill him. Slowly. She was going to make him scream. She was going to make him bleed, and she was going to watch it drip, on the ground creating masterpieces, she would be praised for making such a fantastic bit of art out of such revolting and filthy blood.
Yes, she nodded to herself, she wasn't crazy at all.
Not my usual stuff, not at all. This fic has been a pain in the ass, I've had so much trouble trying to work out how to use the beta service I had just giving up on it completely. For anybody who has yet to see I have posted a Authors Note on What Lurks Behind, it may explain any disturbances in the coming weeks.