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hippolarconinsomiaphobia6.2.10she hated the rain. it was something that she always had trouble telling people. not because she didn't know why, but because everyone else was stupid. rain was dirty. it was spit and bile and sweat that flew up towards the sun and collected, until it became gluttonously fat and heavy until it fell onto the heads of idiots who, by some insane imagination, found romantic meaning in strolling and dancing and kissing in it. no, she hated rain. she'd much rather sit at home in her bathtub, chest-deep in water she had boiled until it was sterile clean. no germs, no filth, no explanations. and she was content, sitting in her clean water, admiring her reflection in the ripples. flesh – starched and steamed and bleached a medical white, like the sheets they throw on the gurneys before they start throwing on the bodies. she smiled a coy smile, with her red lips like crosses, like sinister little vials that emptied into syringes before shooting into arteries and veins and capillaries and spreading like fire. a slender finger wound around her dark hair, black, but not any kind of describable shade. it was more of a color you could feel, an austere kind of sensation that likened to the marbles and leathers in her clean, white house. pale skin, red lips, dark hair, all set off with a lovely white coat with a matching lovely white sunhat with blood red roses around the brim. a pretty picture. and that's how she spent her nights, the ones where the sky vomited acid onto morons that enjoyed it. sitting in her sterile, stagnant water, in her pretty coat, with her pretty skin and pretty lips and pretty hair, in her pretty hat, and filled with pretty hate. she reached over the tubs' edge for a book, slightly damp from her bath, expressionist paintings. fingers trained from many times opening and closing and flipping pages, she knew where to stop. page sixty-nine, Edvard Munch. "The Scream" was her favorite painting. it wasn't because of the skill, or the talent, or the inspiration, no. she was thoroughly convinced Edvard Munch was of little actual expertise. it wasn't because of the colors. she liked the red, but it was far too mottled with those disgusting yellows and blues; the colors of festering bruises. her favorite part was the scream. she liked the face. she liked the expression. she liked superimposing that face, that expression, on the heads of her victims as she lashed at their dirty bodies with her pretty whip making that pretty cracking sound. her victims, sadly, weren't very pretty. so anything she could do to make them more attractive to her, to make them easier to look at, like imagining they were "The Scream", or making their bodies bleed the pretty red colors until their filthy skin ripped off like ugly banana peels revealing the pretty red muscles underneath. pursing her lips into a coy, red cross-vial-vein-fire smile, she gingerly closed the book. reaching into her sterile clean water, she wrapped her fingers around her pretty black whip, wound around her starched-steamed-bleached legs like a pet snake ready to listen to her command. and she stood up, sweeping her indescribable-marble-leather hair behind her. what happened to my happy endings? |
infinity&beyond
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