Red, painful, staining blood.

Gurgling, dribbling, bubbling blood.

Staining, bubbling, fervent pain.

And so it was that the teenager plunged the knife into her mother's body. Red dribbled from that place about halfway down the rib cage, under the left breast.

The knife slashed across the woman's throat, preventing her from screaming. Red, staining blood sprayed from the wound, onto the girl's clothes and face, and matted into her hair.

The knife sunk into the pink skin, tarnishing its perfection, staining it red. Passionate, zealous, obsessive red. It stuck.


White carpet turned red. Dried brown. The mother had no chance to collect DNA; scrabbling fingernails useless against oiled leather and too weak to reach for the face, the only part of her daughter not covered by her own clothing.

The girl grinned an evil, demonic smile as the woman let out her last life's breath. A hiss. Then silence. The sun lowered just a little more through the window and made the red shimmer.

The girl stripped off her mother's clothes, and, completely naked, she went into the backyard, and dumped the clothes into the metal drum used for burning wastes.

She tipped a bottle of lighter fluid into the drum and then a box of lit matches.

Settling into the kiddy pool of freezing water, she watched the black spiral up into the sky. As unfamiliar blood ran off her body, into the pool, she recounted her efforts.


A mother, striking her child. The father gone, wanting to leave the pure, red anger behind, to start a pure, red, passionate relationship with a secretary.

No relief, only pain. Plum bruises, yellow, brown. A wave of red rose to her throat, threatening to overflow.

Older now, and wiser. Knew how far to go, but still the red stayed bottled up.


The heaving chest, muscular body of the brooding rebel, eager to give her his small but oh so sharp fruit knife for her love.

At first a sharp pain in her abdomen; not really sure if she would be safe, but not really caring.

Body against body, one in love, the other, loathing. One mind in harmony, the other, psychotic deformity.

Raw emotions uncovered.

Selling her body for a fruit knife. One that she handled with care, not touching it with her bare hands. He was so in love he didn't care.

"Will I see you tomorrow?"


Her seductive smile kept him waiting. Until the half bottle of morphine in his coffee put him to sleep.

She liked him. But not enough to spare him.

"Together soon, my love,"

She toasted the cup of coffee she had prepared earlier to the sky, and drank.


Eyes closed, awash in red. Body sunk, awash in red. Death came, awash in red.

A/N: I wrote this when I was really angry. But it was stupid because I had absolutely no reason to be angry. I was in an angry, twisted, fucked up mood. I still don't think it's perfect but I may end up rewriting it one day... I find this very reminiscent of my good friend Atalante's style. If you don't believe me, read her stuff. For now, I shall go. If you liked this, review. If you didn't, review.