Blood On Da Wallz

My God... I...

Let me at least say I'm sorry, baby, please. Don't... don't go.
Oh that's right.
You can't.
But hear me out at least.
I'm fascinated by your patience, even after what I've done here. Please don't interrupt. Where was I? Oh yes!
The knife worked splendidly, you have to admit. It was like cutting butter. Even the knife tricks I performed beforehand added to the atmosphere. Theatrics are important to me.
So yeah, how did it feel? The murder, I mean. Did it hurt? Did it go on too long? Are you angry at me?
No, of course not.
Look at that smile.
Pinned up on the ambrosian wall.
That wall.
My pin-up girl.
On the wall.
The wall with all the blood.

Hungary

Irrelevance.
Nervous newly-weds on their night out.
Medicines will wring anxiety to drought.
They slip under crisp, new covers.
Murderers come and kill them.
They kill newly-weds on purpose.
They slip in and kill some lovers.
Victims leave and are dead.
They get dead, on mistake.
Grievance.
They must be jealous.
Young folks are dead and passed.
They must be very crazy people.
Youths are no longer cuddling.
They must pull murders, often.
Youngs are without previous mortality.
Science.
Murders are caused because of a sterling silver knife.
Mad folks come and find a young folk and stop their life.
These murderous pals come and murder because they wish they could marry.
Instead, murders are asunder to which there is surprised and then they bury.
Malcolm, Dina, Shane, Qualler, and Belle are among the passed and deceased.
The folks who have committed their murder are in big trouble, in jail, not released.
Murderers like Rowel and Filder are not supposed to chop folks up like they did in real life.
They are not supposed to be bad and kill young people having sex on their honeymoon.
Independence.

Hunting Knife

My son's head was scooped up and placed onto my lap. I could feel my pulse up against where his nose pressed into my leg. There was the feeling of warm liquid pooling around my zipper area. Don't tell anyone, but there was a possibility of that being any liquid- maybe even all. Yeah, after a while, it registered. My son is passed away and decapitated. At the very moment all of the warm liquid was only obvious blood, I twitched. No doubt this is devastating. This was no time to be sitting down. Of course I was paralyzed, somewhat. "The moment I stand up, I will get vengeance." I wish I had done that.

What they were doing was ridiculous. Slapping folks in the back of their necks and whacking peoples heads and hips all over the road. We could barely keep up. What was the use? We were here, pressure-washing human mold from below us. I'll bet they consider us to be cleaning up after ourselves. They're awful. I don't think they're monsters, though. They just need to get their shit together. What I hate the most is the sneer they have to make because of how the nerves in their arms connect to their lips. Their shoulders are either really high up like monkeys-in-a-barrel or low, like a librarian with lockjaw. I know. The glasses just stab me. Ah, metaphorically, I mean. Nay, mentally: it's disturbing.

Son's dead. Right. I am paralyzed. Sweat rolls down my nose, and I can't do a thing. It bothered me so much, I would have loved to just pick up my pressure-washing kit and just blow that tuft of skin from off of my face. "Someone please lift me up, and scrape me into the pavement." I wish I had said that. If I had said it when I thought it, I would have had some help. They're still deplorable.

After a third of these things left, I was finally able to move. Well, I was able to move a few parts of myself. Every slight move I made, though, was followed by an energetic, jerking motion. I probably wasn't so ready, yet. I wish I had known that. What I did next was somewhat of a compensation for these tinier moves I was making. Basically, I lunged my self forward. My son's head had already been slipping lower, beyond my knees. This just caused it to finally roll under my bench. Fuck it. I wasn't planning on keeping it.

The End.