Part One:
Chapter Two:

Kurosawa took the painted baby carefully and placed her down on the crisp white spare bed in the room next door. Sadako lay sleeping and sucking on her bloodied fingers, letting her mother colour her tongue; unaware of her father's inhumane act. He returned to his pulverised wife, along with a large, wooden- handled axe and an impassive appearance.

There she lay, showered across the double bed, his wife of four years. Her eyes remained fixed on Kurosawa still mournful and dazed, but now bloodshot like her husbands. With his blistered hand, he lifted up her head, feeling her soft black hair. "You were my most beautiful experiment," Kurosawa manically spoke to himself. He leaned down towards her and kissed her on the lips, conscious of the fact that she had dribbled blood into his mouth. Kurosawa licked every inch of his thin, crusted lips, tasting his dead wife. He lunged towards her, eager to taste more, repeating the same process of his brutality. As their lips sunk together, he gazed upwards looking at her bloodshot eyes, to 'rekindle' their cherished memories. Her eyes were wider than ever, the balls seemed as if they were falling out of their sockets. The blue veins in the surface of her forehead gave the impression as if they were still throbbing. She looked peculiar, no longer human. Her face was of an odd grey colour, the look of death.

As Kurosawa continued to relish the bubbling blood, he felt strange. He felt as if there was a presence with him. He felt as if she was talking, whispering to him "get away from me, get away from Sadako. She is not your daughter." Kurosawa leapt back from his feet, confused, dumb-founded by the whispering voices. She continued to stare at him as if she was warning him. "She is not your daughter." The words echoed and thundered in his mind, becoming louder each time. It strained in his head, as if a swarm of flies around a dirty child. It made him shiver all over his dirty body and collapse on to the floor. There he rocked himself back and forth, continuously thrashing his head and burning ears in order to rid her voice.

Kurosawa pulled himself up of the floor and placed his head next to Nanako's glazed face, sobbing quietly. As the dirty tears rolled off his scarred cheeks and on to the pillow, he closed his eyes tight. But he felt breathing. He felt laboured breathing, breathing against the top of his cold-blooded, murdering skull. It was harsh and he could feel each individual hot saliva droplet every time it exhaled. His breath became still; the hairs on the back of his neck, parallel with one another, too horrified of what he might encounter if he opened them.

There, she lay, blinking. Blinking with her bloodied eyes.