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unscheduled interruption
"Oaaah. Can't you taste her life, slipping away, her pain? God, so sharp, the blade so cold, her blood so warm and sweet! God, how I love it when you get them so young, still wet from fucking, still trembling inside! Almost like your Diana, so young that first time, God, yes, so fearful, such sweet pain at first, those first hard thrusts, walls crumbling before you, then her Fall From Grace, her eyes on you as you saw her suddenly want you, suddenly eager, suddenly a whore at eight summers, a woman born in your arms beneath you, her breath hot, her body moving with yours, your slut forever, eager mouth to come, the swelling inside you, her heart beating so fast, her first cum, then her fear as your swelling didn't stop, the sudden clearness in her eyes, her father's flood carrying her to Hell, to me!"
The Man took a sip of Shiraz and savoured her, the waves of the poem making him feel weightless.
"She isn't moving any more. Why isn't she moving? She's stopped moving. It's too soon. Oh, dear Jesus God, she's gone!"
The Man had been lost in the music of his God, the wine calming him, the girl's life and flesh and blood resurrecting his parched heart. The change in his Master's tone shattered the reverie, his heart beat fast, but his blood felt cold.
He placed his glass down clumsily, his knife beside it on the shelf.
He saw the blood still dripping from her, beatless now, her heart gone still.
The silence choked him, the Voice long gone, the girl's eyes no longer pushing tears, just vacant, empty, still.
Fucking failure, this pathetic little whore.
He sighed and rose. He emptied the wine glass in the sink, recorked the bottle and washed the knife. He tidied up the sink when he was through.
He rolled his expensive sleeves back down and donned his jacket. He stepped carefully over the blood pooled on the floor.
He slipped his raincoat on and stepped outside into the artificial night.
The Man took a sip of Shiraz and savoured her, the waves of the poem making him feel weightless.
"She isn't moving any more. Why isn't she moving? She's stopped moving. It's too soon. Oh, dear Jesus God, she's gone!"
The Man had been lost in the music of his God, the wine calming him, the girl's life and flesh and blood resurrecting his parched heart. The change in his Master's tone shattered the reverie, his heart beat fast, but his blood felt cold.
He placed his glass down clumsily, his knife beside it on the shelf.
He saw the blood still dripping from her, beatless now, her heart gone still.
The silence choked him, the Voice long gone, the girl's eyes no longer pushing tears, just vacant, empty, still.
Fucking failure, this pathetic little whore.
He sighed and rose. He emptied the wine glass in the sink, recorked the bottle and washed the knife. He tidied up the sink when he was through.
He rolled his expensive sleeves back down and donned his jacket. He stepped carefully over the blood pooled on the floor.
He slipped his raincoat on and stepped outside into the artificial night.