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Tentative Title: Wild Dogs
Estimated Word Count: 20,000-25,000 words
Rating: Mature
Genre: Angst/Psychological Thriller
Warnings: Blood/Gore, Violence, Smut
A serial killer!HiJack AU. The beginning section is written in first/second person, but I promise I will be eliminating the second person later on. Here's a brief teaser:
I often remember how easy it was in those days. That house was all alone. Tangled up in overgrown grass. Dark green against a fire sky. With us running free like wild dogs. We were each other's bitch. In the best way. You licked my wounds. I scrubbed the dirt off your cheeks. I kept you clean. You kept me safe. Relatively speaking. But you were reckless. Like the puppies in the alleyway. Trying to be the big dog. Cuts on your wrists and ankles, scar along my back. Was it easy? No. But we were free. But we were young and innocent and no one ever blamed a stupid little kid. No one ever came to that house. Now that I think back, we were fools. Anyone could have stumbled in. Drunk teenagers, curious neighbors.
Witnesses.
Thank the high wooden fence for that. Eyes never saw beyond the vines and weeds. Backyard business was closed, private. The near empty pool full of snakes and spiders.
I did my work in the dark. You did yours by the moonlight, soft and glowing against the paper thin sky. Skin like paper. Crinkled up in sheets that you throw away. The house was two stories. Plain on the outside. Pale yellow that made me think of egg yolks and a brown roof that absorbed the sun. Tiles fell off in the middle of the night. I flinched when they clattered to the ground. Broken bits and pieces all over the grass. Plants somehow still alive. Bodies dreamed beneath their roots. Full of life blood that fed the blooming roses.
Another excerpt:
Red looked fake against your skin. Finger paint or something. That night, everything about you was inanimate. We moved our mannequin bodies up the stairs. One by one, our victims were placed upon the ground. I was careful. The floor was covered in newspaper. Not that it frickin’ mattered anyway. You spilled blood all over that damn house. Still, it was better than nothing. One less place to clean up. Where was a poor kid supposed to get things like rubber sheets? Bleach was my friend. I stole it from the cabinet under the sink. My foster parents were never good at hiding things. Plastic containers sat in the corner of the room. Newspapers lined with duct tape so that nothing slipped through. We laid one over the obituaries. You've always liked to be ironic. The others bled onto the advertisements page. A jugular hanging out, draped across a seven day forecast.
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You can contact me at jazzycat08@gmail.com or cashewkitty.tumblr.com
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You can contact me any time at imagine786@yahoo.com or sammy-who-are-these-people.tumblr.com.
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