A wannabe bodyguard’s goes to the rich man’s house for an interview. He finds him lying in his own blood.
Blood inched its way down my forearm and stained her glistening teeth.
I always hated her tea parties.
She had blonde hair painted red. I was crazy with blood stained hands.
This morning I opened the curtains to find a bloody hand print from the outside of the window. I live on the third floor.
So one day, I accidentally cut my finger and blood started oozing out, and dripping on the floor. Like always, my polite housekeeper asked, “Sir, can I finish your leftovers”?
He’d finally had enough of shaving and he was convinced if he got a close enough shave he wouldn’t have to worry about it for a whole week. Over and over again the five bladed razor scraped along his skin; the deranged man never noticed he had reached bone as his whole torso was covered in blood and shredded pieces of his face.
When I spoke enviously of Josephine’s long lashes, rosy cheeks and soft curves, the corners of my Samael’s lips lifted, and he let out a low, menacing laugh that sent an erotic chill down my spine. He withdrew his blade and spoke in a hauntingly satisfied murmur to its blood-stained tip: “My love, all skeletons look the same.”
Carrie screams in a blood drenched bathtub while in the living room Sybil is judge, jury, and the accused. Roommates from hell.
Eight-year-old Amanda isn’t writing a letter to Santa Claus this year — she already has what she wants. She smears a message on the wall of her room, with unsteady hands covered in blood and mutters, “Daddy won’t ever touch me again.”
Tim bit furiously at his nails, teeth marks making way for a bloodied mess beneath. He stopped as the doctor walked in and said, “We’re not just sure, we’re HIV positive.”
I keep two birds locked in a golden cage, atop the kitchen counter in a dusty, musty house. The paint is peeling, the floorboards are gone, blood streaks the walls, and the two birds stare at me from the confines of their golden cage.