(no subject)
Tears roll down a pale face curling the dimples of a grin. Sitting with crossed legs in a pool of scarlet so rich it seemed to demand its own world. The wall was a mural any other mural, oceananic base with a red sun rising from the horizen. The blue of the sky and the red of the sun clash into brilliant displays of purple and pink skies, the clouds defined enough that the psuedo-man-god images of rock stars were all but incomprehendable. As a sign of respect and courtesy the honoured guest's head was placed to see the rising sun of the mural. The guest had all her clothes intact in order, even though heavyily bloody they were not torn or removed, her blody blonde curls no longer had bounce.
Now finished his relaxation, the murderer placed silver dollars in the eyes of the guest in case the stories of the ferryman and the river Styx was true as well as two saramic hands to replace the hands he cut off and had need of. He left the storage shelter, and walked out in to the rain singing. "I've got sunshine, on a cloudy day. When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May. Well I'd guess you'd say 'What can make me feel this way?'. My Girl, my girl, talkin bout my girl..."The murderer got to work on time for his first appointment.
He would listen and ask questions for a two hour session, his patient was a teenage girl beaten and impregnanted by her father. "After one night of drinking," as she retold the night that causes her the most greif, "papa came home and began to touch Tommy's thighs. Tommy had just turned thirteen and had his first growth spurt so he thought he was old enough to defend himself. After Tommy missed his punch attempt, papa just started punching and punching and wouldn't stop punching. So I had to stop him, papa was gonna hurt Tommy, I grabbed a knife from the table and told papa to leave him alone but papa didn't listen. I stabbed him, and it felt good and i stabbed him again and again. I felt so happy and free when papa stopped gasping for air. But Tommy saw me smile and he ran away, he never wanted to see me again. But it felt so right."
Her psychologist tried all he could think of to be able to deem her life worthy of living, but her execution date was sealed. "On grounds of sociopathea, Joyce Hayes shall be executed procedeing the birth of her bastard child via letheal injection. The child is to be placed in a proper foster family and recieve psychotherapy at first signs of mental illness due to possible hereditary disposition." He thought to himself that had this little girl simply not been so honest about her joy in the killing of her father she would b allowed to live, not a jury in the world could convict a little girl defending herself against an abusive father but with clear mental illness the rich white jury members saw her as a bug.
After handing a mentally unstable person into the hands of death, the psychologist went home and relieved some tension by sculpting. He created a beautiful miniture, Jesus Christ was on the cross and Cassius with spear in hand being praised by a black robed figure. The black robe figure was a female of about teenage height and build, and she has a kitchen knife on a belt and a smile from ear to ear.
His art room was a shrine to life, that is to say his veiw on life; paintings where suns glowing as they fall below to the waves, sending the last life force to brighten the clouds and colour the sky, fill the walls in the absense of shelf fulls of sculpture. Figurines of the old, the wise, the dead, the dying, the twisted; some flushed of emotion, and some overcome by it, some contorted, and some peacefully straight. Among the paraphernalia, a baby in a crib cloaked in the purest of whites with rosey cheeks and a dimpled smile.
He'll be strong, smart, secure, as long as you don't make him as stubborn as you. Tehehe. Our little junior... junior... junior..." The word still echoed amongst his head, the only solice from hearing junior was hearing the blood curtling screams she would make the next day as he would have to watch helplessly.
"NO!!! HELP!!! NO!!!!" She screamed as the thugs kissed her body. They licked her tears and mocked Andrew's helpless struggles from the dog cage. The dog's blood could cover up his pissing himself but only his wife's scream's could drown out his own cursing. As the thugs finished their ravaging of the woman they tossed her out of their way. She hit a crib and they both tumbled out a window. She hit the ground breaking her neck, the crib however become stuck upon a tree with a crying baby inside.
"Rock-a-bye baby on a tree top." One of the thugs sung as she unmasked herself and let her blonde curls bounce. " When the wind blows the craddle will rock," she poked the crib with her finger, " when the bough breaks the craddle will fall," a violent push knocking the crib out of the tree and to the ground, "and down will come baby, craddle and all..." The remains thugs carried the woman out making disgusted grunts to each other.
Finished with his sculpture and finished with his thoughts we walked over to a painting covered by a sheet. He undraped a self portrait. "Finally finished. Finally finished" He repeated over and over again as he shot himself in the head. His blood and brains coated his self portrait in red. The remains of what was his head smiled as his portrait did.
Now finished his relaxation, the murderer placed silver dollars in the eyes of the guest in case the stories of the ferryman and the river Styx was true as well as two saramic hands to replace the hands he cut off and had need of. He left the storage shelter, and walked out in to the rain singing. "I've got sunshine, on a cloudy day. When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May. Well I'd guess you'd say 'What can make me feel this way?'. My Girl, my girl, talkin bout my girl..."The murderer got to work on time for his first appointment.
He would listen and ask questions for a two hour session, his patient was a teenage girl beaten and impregnanted by her father. "After one night of drinking," as she retold the night that causes her the most greif, "papa came home and began to touch Tommy's thighs. Tommy had just turned thirteen and had his first growth spurt so he thought he was old enough to defend himself. After Tommy missed his punch attempt, papa just started punching and punching and wouldn't stop punching. So I had to stop him, papa was gonna hurt Tommy, I grabbed a knife from the table and told papa to leave him alone but papa didn't listen. I stabbed him, and it felt good and i stabbed him again and again. I felt so happy and free when papa stopped gasping for air. But Tommy saw me smile and he ran away, he never wanted to see me again. But it felt so right."
Her psychologist tried all he could think of to be able to deem her life worthy of living, but her execution date was sealed. "On grounds of sociopathea, Joyce Hayes shall be executed procedeing the birth of her bastard child via letheal injection. The child is to be placed in a proper foster family and recieve psychotherapy at first signs of mental illness due to possible hereditary disposition." He thought to himself that had this little girl simply not been so honest about her joy in the killing of her father she would b allowed to live, not a jury in the world could convict a little girl defending herself against an abusive father but with clear mental illness the rich white jury members saw her as a bug.
After handing a mentally unstable person into the hands of death, the psychologist went home and relieved some tension by sculpting. He created a beautiful miniture, Jesus Christ was on the cross and Cassius with spear in hand being praised by a black robed figure. The black robe figure was a female of about teenage height and build, and she has a kitchen knife on a belt and a smile from ear to ear.
His art room was a shrine to life, that is to say his veiw on life; paintings where suns glowing as they fall below to the waves, sending the last life force to brighten the clouds and colour the sky, fill the walls in the absense of shelf fulls of sculpture. Figurines of the old, the wise, the dead, the dying, the twisted; some flushed of emotion, and some overcome by it, some contorted, and some peacefully straight. Among the paraphernalia, a baby in a crib cloaked in the purest of whites with rosey cheeks and a dimpled smile.
He'll be strong, smart, secure, as long as you don't make him as stubborn as you. Tehehe. Our little junior... junior... junior..." The word still echoed amongst his head, the only solice from hearing junior was hearing the blood curtling screams she would make the next day as he would have to watch helplessly.
"NO!!! HELP!!! NO!!!!" She screamed as the thugs kissed her body. They licked her tears and mocked Andrew's helpless struggles from the dog cage. The dog's blood could cover up his pissing himself but only his wife's scream's could drown out his own cursing. As the thugs finished their ravaging of the woman they tossed her out of their way. She hit a crib and they both tumbled out a window. She hit the ground breaking her neck, the crib however become stuck upon a tree with a crying baby inside.
"Rock-a-bye baby on a tree top." One of the thugs sung as she unmasked herself and let her blonde curls bounce. " When the wind blows the craddle will rock," she poked the crib with her finger, " when the bough breaks the craddle will fall," a violent push knocking the crib out of the tree and to the ground, "and down will come baby, craddle and all..." The remains thugs carried the woman out making disgusted grunts to each other.
Finished with his sculpture and finished with his thoughts we walked over to a painting covered by a sheet. He undraped a self portrait. "Finally finished. Finally finished" He repeated over and over again as he shot himself in the head. His blood and brains coated his self portrait in red. The remains of what was his head smiled as his portrait did.