Status: Still in-progress. :)
OMJ I Killed Joe Jonas?
Sadism
Slowly I started to break apart mentally. These dreams I've been having were starting to become too much for me to handle. What sick woman dreams about killing her husband, really? But the blood... the horrified expression that played on his face... it was so addicting to see, right before my very eyes.
Last night, the dream was more vivid than ever before. I was reluctant to sleep, knowing I would most likely have one of those dreams again, of me killing him, of watching how he writhed in front of me before he pupils went blank. Yet I eventually drifted off.
At first, the world was black; I was beginning to have a dreamless sleep. Soon, the lighting adjusted and there I was in my body, holding a large, sharp knife in front of my face. I felt myself smirking evilly, deviously. He was in that same corner, crouched like a child wanting protection from the outside world.
"Don't do this," he begged quietly, losing all sanity he had left.
I began to laugh heartily. "Oh? And who'd going to stop me? Certainly not you. Come on, babe, it will only hurt for a second, and then it will all go away."
As I approached his pathetic figure, he began to shrink back, as if he could magically hide within the wall. It proved fruitless as I crouched beside him, holding the knife dangerously close to his face.
"Please..."
I struggled to keep the knife away; I wanted to, but the blood... the sweet, metallic scent of crimson blood...
I knew the feeling. I'd known the feeling since these dreams began.
Sadism.
Sweet sadism.
"Good-bye, babe." I slowly ran the knife blade over his neck. The sweet crimson fluid rushed out, getting all over myself and my clothing. Not that I minded. No. I wanted to drain him, drain him of every last drop of blood and admire my handiwork. I was no cannibal. I was an artist, an artist whose media consisted of blood and knife.
All life that was left was gone. The last thing I saw in his last moments was sheer hatred. Hatred for me.
No.
That's not what I wanted.
I wanted him to be a victim, of course. I wanted him to be my masterpiece, my Mona Lisa. I did not want him to hate me in those last moments of his short-lived life. He was beautiful. Why couldn't he appreciate how beautiful he was dead?
I dropped the knife and screamed. My masterpiece was ruined.
When I woke, it was not where I had expected to be. I had expected to be safe in my warm bed, next to him, watching him sleep soundly.
Instead, I was in the kitchen, holding the same knife I had just killed him with in my dream. I saw the blood stains... were those real or not. No. They were fake. They had to be.
But if I were sleep-walking now... what if, during a crazy nightmare, I actually did kill him, subconsciously?
I screamed for real this time, dropping the knife and missing my toes by a centimeter.
Last night, the dream was more vivid than ever before. I was reluctant to sleep, knowing I would most likely have one of those dreams again, of me killing him, of watching how he writhed in front of me before he pupils went blank. Yet I eventually drifted off.
At first, the world was black; I was beginning to have a dreamless sleep. Soon, the lighting adjusted and there I was in my body, holding a large, sharp knife in front of my face. I felt myself smirking evilly, deviously. He was in that same corner, crouched like a child wanting protection from the outside world.
"Don't do this," he begged quietly, losing all sanity he had left.
I began to laugh heartily. "Oh? And who'd going to stop me? Certainly not you. Come on, babe, it will only hurt for a second, and then it will all go away."
As I approached his pathetic figure, he began to shrink back, as if he could magically hide within the wall. It proved fruitless as I crouched beside him, holding the knife dangerously close to his face.
"Please..."
I struggled to keep the knife away; I wanted to, but the blood... the sweet, metallic scent of crimson blood...
I knew the feeling. I'd known the feeling since these dreams began.
Sadism.
Sweet sadism.
"Good-bye, babe." I slowly ran the knife blade over his neck. The sweet crimson fluid rushed out, getting all over myself and my clothing. Not that I minded. No. I wanted to drain him, drain him of every last drop of blood and admire my handiwork. I was no cannibal. I was an artist, an artist whose media consisted of blood and knife.
All life that was left was gone. The last thing I saw in his last moments was sheer hatred. Hatred for me.
No.
That's not what I wanted.
I wanted him to be a victim, of course. I wanted him to be my masterpiece, my Mona Lisa. I did not want him to hate me in those last moments of his short-lived life. He was beautiful. Why couldn't he appreciate how beautiful he was dead?
I dropped the knife and screamed. My masterpiece was ruined.
When I woke, it was not where I had expected to be. I had expected to be safe in my warm bed, next to him, watching him sleep soundly.
Instead, I was in the kitchen, holding the same knife I had just killed him with in my dream. I saw the blood stains... were those real or not. No. They were fake. They had to be.
But if I were sleep-walking now... what if, during a crazy nightmare, I actually did kill him, subconsciously?
I screamed for real this time, dropping the knife and missing my toes by a centimeter.
♠ ♠ ♠
This was fun to write, like, REALLY. I've always wanted to do a sadistic one-shot. >:D I'm not insulting the real Brittany, for this is only fiction, my lovelies! Stay tuned for next time! Remember to comment!