Collar bones popped against pale skin, too pale to be healthy. As expected of a homeless soul, no jewelry would hang upon the wiry rack of a human, no more than than a walking skeleton. Gaunt with hunger and weariness, eyes were sunken in; blank. She moved, like a zombie, with no aim or destination, merely trudging along the road, hollow eyes gazing upon nothing in particular. As though navigated by an external source, all the girl would do was to push forth, one foot following the other.
Step by step she moved, bringing with her stray droplets of crimson, splattering the sidewalk from attire, shoes — even hair. Drenched in the life-giving liquid, yet paying no heed to the mess she was creating. The darkness of the night gave her cover, though she did not walk in the shadows. Tongue flicked, catching blood upon her lips and moistening the chapped skin, as though lipstick upon what would have been soft kissable lips.
But who dared to kiss a woman soaked in blood?
Who would even dare approach the maiden, raven tresses caked with dirt and old blood?
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock
The clock tower provided but the only noise in the silent night, and yet she would freeze into place, for once showing signs of alertness. Sapphire eyes would stare at the corner that she had yet to take, but a smile would spread, one that would have been quite the lovely image, if not for the cruelty that sipped into it, along with dancing amusement of sadism within eyes that glowed red.
"It’s time to play again~"
Velvety rich, the whisper matched not the appearance, and popping digits into mouth, the female would lick and cleanse otherwise ensanguined hands. Small hands, with no potential or strength, seeming to likely struggle even with buttons upon shirt, wrist rail thin, an image of malnourishment.
So how did the girl sprint forth with speed that was surely inhumanly, catching the unfortunate victim who was merely attempting to reach home to greet his wife, and apologize for the hour that he would return at? Hand barely gripped the entire of his throat, but it was sufficient enough for her to lift him, giggle pealing into the air as the other sank deep, rummaging in search for an organ of choice — like a person fishing blindly for their wallet in a bag.
"What should I take? A heart?" Black bleeding into scelera as she gripped the beating organ within hand, head tilted as fingers tightened upon tender throat. Air was gasped for, and screams of pain echoed through the streets, most certainly drawing the attention of the people and waking them from the drowsy state. Lights flicked on, and heads were stuck out in search for the source of that nerve-wrecking scream, but not a thing in sight.
Yet when they would leave home the next day, the first would faint at the sight of mangled body, intestines wrapped almost lovingly around neck as he dangled from a lamppost, organs laid clearly at his feet. Not a single one remained in the man, be it eyes or brain, yet there would be one, just one organ that was missing.
To top it off, behind him was a message left, a message smeared in blood.
"Aren’t you glad you didn’t leave the house?"
theartofmadeline
janainaart
vaporwave
kianamaiart
