Rain hits against the window-pane. Transparent pearls run down. The man does not see his reflexion, lost in thoughts he glides over the weapon. A smile darts over his face and spreads out as the screams ring out in his ears once more. Almost he can feel again the young flesh under himself, winding, fighting, at last giving up in complete exhaustion. Almost he can smell it again, this smell of the fear and excitement. Almost he can see it again, this face like an angel, distorts under his power. The smile dwindles, like the memory and the last movements under him. It gives way to the clear knowledge this was the perfect moment. He takes the weapon, the barrel still brilliantly from her moisture, smells the scent of her excitement and tastes the sweetness of his power as he slowly slides it in his mouth.
After the noise follows the
silence and transparent pearls turn red.
Cloe, 2012
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