The Last Moments
He sat back in the bathtub, pondering the razor in his hand. How that one small object could make or break a person.
Red. The colour of passion, of love, of Blood It had always been his favourite colour.
He shifted, the scalding water lapping at his collarbone now. He hadn't turned off the tap; the water would soon overflow. He didn't pay it any mind.
He had drawn the colour from the bodies of so many people. The crimson painted his hands and their skin. So perfect. So beautiful.
The razor dug into his thumb, the pain sharp but not bothersome. He watched, fascinated as he pulled the razor away and his favourite colour followed steadily, dripping down his palm before falling, dirtying the pure water.
The people didn't matter. They were harlots. Whores. They didn't know his pain, as they laughed about it, asking him to take the growing life from their wombs. "It would ruin business," she'd state, feigning coyness. It made him sick.
A languid smile found his lips, pulling at his tear-stained cheeks.
How he envied them. They were beautiful. They could create and shelter new life within themselves. He yearned for that priviledge. There were no words for how much he hated, abhorred those women who tossed the gift aside.
The razor traced its own path across his soft palm, cutting deep, leaving the beautiful crimson to flow and slowly dye the water pink. The pain welcomed him like a mother's arms.
Their screams were the most gorgeous symphony. "What about sedatives...?" She'd ask as he approached with a scalpel. "Oh, you shan't need any..." He'd reassure her quietly, letting his lips pull over his sharpened teeth into a sadistic smile...
The water overflowed, pattering to the floor like rain. The pink of the water was steadily deepening to red as the razor hiked down the length of his inner arm, pausing at his elbow. The blood flowed freely, his vision blurring, focusing, and blurring again.
He'd strap her down to the table and press cold steel to her lower abdomen. The nameless whore would whimper and beg for her pathetic life. His vision would sharpen as he pressed the blade in. The metallic scent of her blood would tickle his nose pleasantly, and his smile would be real.
He always took pride in his appearance. He had naturally crimson hair that he kept long, flowing in waves to the base of his spine. He wore a long crimson coat, and did his best to look good at all times. But now, stripped of his adornments, he knew he was ugly. Hideous. Disgusting. He could never be what he wanted to be. He could never have what he wanted to have. He could never have a child of his own.
The job was finished. She still sat on the dissection table, cut open and missing the organ that she had so selfishly forsaken. He had gently, carefully preserved the unlucky fetus, still inside its fragile home. He would sew her lifeless body back together later. For now, he raised the bottle to his lips and took a large swig, sighing at the burn of the aged Irish whisky.
His conciousness flickered, and he tore the razor through the flesh of his abdomen, over his nonexistant uterus. He left the razor imbedded there as his arm fell away, his body losing the will to move. He sank down lower into the crimson water, his shuddering breathing growing more and more shallow.
Their deaths only contented him for days, a week at the longest... Then it had to happen again... And again... And again...
His conciousness faded, and his body slipped under the crimson water completely. The cry of a newborn child echoed in his final thoughts.
Written for an English assignment. I love when I can crossover work and play. *grin*