a shiny metal knife gleamed in the dim light, its virgin blade as yet unstained by spilled blood. the black handle fitted snugly in the grip of the wielder, lightly held in the hands of one comfortable with knives. turning it slightly, light glinted off the razor sharp end, playing on the polished surface.
a finger skimmed over the edge, touching but not quite careless enough to cut. the hand brought the knife up, its blade flat against a cheek.
a gasp, at the sudden sensation of cold metal against warm flesh. and perhaps the tangible smell of fear as the knife slide down, following the curve of a jaw to the slender neck below.
pale cream white contrasted with silver.
so vulnerable.
so fearful.
yet such serenity as cold eyes lifted to pleading ones, a cruel smile upon the lips.
mocking.
taunting.
a slight pressure, a tiny pinprick of pain, a single drop of blood.
an increased pressure, a small downward movement, a thin line of red.
a weak whimper, a desperate plead, a rising scream.
a quick slash, slicing open soft flesh, cutting off a strangled cry.
thick red liquid flows, over porcelain pale skin.
crimson on ivory.
such a pretty picture.
just like scattered red roses on white sheets.
