The coolly boy had grown from a feverish blackened silk skin to a pale yet brown chain-chained goosebumps. He had just not just brutalized a person with his own 2 hands; all that now lay on the ground by his window was blood...
...and some more blood below it...
...followed by a mutilated blonde head, but had brunette roots festering underneath the blood and sweat that hid any human trace.
On the ground lay a camera, intricately pointing south, in the direction of the crime that passed 2 seconds ago.
Another second passed... Another minute, and eventually, the blood oozed out of the carcass and started swallowing the camera slowly. The hemorrhage bellowed at his feet, and the sulking warmth remained wrapped onto his soles until he snapped out of whatever trance caught him.
"Shit", he muttered to himself, "camera's gonna go broke if I don't pick it up...you could'a told me this was hap'nin'". He chuckled, and collected as never, he picked up the camera, dried it off on his shirt, removed the minidisc, and promptly replayed the murder on his TV.
But he didn't just want to see his torturous method. His trance regained him, rebutting comfort into his fit, and lead to an involuntary repeat of what he was seeing himself do. His hands karated the inky air of the circulatory diffusion of the defunct being, weilding an icepick he got many winters ago. His overacting ripped his shirt cleanly off. The absorption of the trance got into his head at such magnitude that he replayed the video, staring trance-ridden at every frame his torture method for about 5 seconds per frame. One of these intervals shot him back to reality. It was the instant the wound of entry became apparent. And suddenly, the warming glow of the vertical drawing screen grew cold.
The entire hope of one being was dispersed in a single frame.
The glossy screens coldness sustained. He looked over at the shirt on the floor.
"I can always use the sweater tomorrow"
...and some more blood below it...
...followed by a mutilated blonde head, but had brunette roots festering underneath the blood and sweat that hid any human trace.
On the ground lay a camera, intricately pointing south, in the direction of the crime that passed 2 seconds ago.
Another second passed... Another minute, and eventually, the blood oozed out of the carcass and started swallowing the camera slowly. The hemorrhage bellowed at his feet, and the sulking warmth remained wrapped onto his soles until he snapped out of whatever trance caught him.
"Shit", he muttered to himself, "camera's gonna go broke if I don't pick it up...you could'a told me this was hap'nin'". He chuckled, and collected as never, he picked up the camera, dried it off on his shirt, removed the minidisc, and promptly replayed the murder on his TV.
But he didn't just want to see his torturous method. His trance regained him, rebutting comfort into his fit, and lead to an involuntary repeat of what he was seeing himself do. His hands karated the inky air of the circulatory diffusion of the defunct being, weilding an icepick he got many winters ago. His overacting ripped his shirt cleanly off. The absorption of the trance got into his head at such magnitude that he replayed the video, staring trance-ridden at every frame his torture method for about 5 seconds per frame. One of these intervals shot him back to reality. It was the instant the wound of entry became apparent. And suddenly, the warming glow of the vertical drawing screen grew cold.
The entire hope of one being was dispersed in a single frame.
The glossy screens coldness sustained. He looked over at the shirt on the floor.
"I can always use the sweater tomorrow"
