Status: Short story.
Tell Me How You Killed Her
A secret I'll never tell.
Shower me in your praise. Drown me in your sorrows, tell me your past and your reasons. Speak to me of fear, of your fear and your desires. Tell me all.
Tell me of your sins. Of those you've killed. Tell me of your mortality, of your lack of morality. Speak of those chirping birds and how they drive you crazy. How you'd like to cut them up and bury them with those croaking frogs. Tell me how your father used to beat you, and your mama used to cut you, and you tell me that it's not your fault, that it was the way you were raised. Speak of how your mother fell silent when you slit her throat. Or how your father screamed as you smashed every single one of his bones and left him for the coyotes. How you listened to him scream and scream as you sat watching TV and eating Captain Crunch. Tell me. Mention off-hand how lovely blood looks on pale, pale skin.
You killed her. I know it was you. I can see it in your smug, smug eyes as you tell me that you're mad, crazy, off-your-rocker. It's not madness. It's just hatred. You know nothing of real emotion, at least not yet you don't. You killed her.
So tell me how you did it. People like you love to brag about these things, right? It fits right into your character profile that your therapist gave to you. You put it away in your filing cabinet as she sat behind you, slowly dying. You pondered over it as you sliced her open, her screams music to your thoughts. So brag. Inflicting physical pain no longer curbs the desire, I know it doesn't. Another one of those character profiles, right? Eventually the death themselves are no longer enough. You need the publicity. You need people to know what you've done, to fear.
So tell me how you sliced open her throat and wrists. Of how you sat there and smoked a cigarette as she bled shamelessly in your bathtub. Don't forget cutting out her heart.
Speak all about how you killed my sister.
Now, beg as I repeat it with you.
Tell me of your sins. Of those you've killed. Tell me of your mortality, of your lack of morality. Speak of those chirping birds and how they drive you crazy. How you'd like to cut them up and bury them with those croaking frogs. Tell me how your father used to beat you, and your mama used to cut you, and you tell me that it's not your fault, that it was the way you were raised. Speak of how your mother fell silent when you slit her throat. Or how your father screamed as you smashed every single one of his bones and left him for the coyotes. How you listened to him scream and scream as you sat watching TV and eating Captain Crunch. Tell me. Mention off-hand how lovely blood looks on pale, pale skin.
You killed her. I know it was you. I can see it in your smug, smug eyes as you tell me that you're mad, crazy, off-your-rocker. It's not madness. It's just hatred. You know nothing of real emotion, at least not yet you don't. You killed her.
So tell me how you did it. People like you love to brag about these things, right? It fits right into your character profile that your therapist gave to you. You put it away in your filing cabinet as she sat behind you, slowly dying. You pondered over it as you sliced her open, her screams music to your thoughts. So brag. Inflicting physical pain no longer curbs the desire, I know it doesn't. Another one of those character profiles, right? Eventually the death themselves are no longer enough. You need the publicity. You need people to know what you've done, to fear.
So tell me how you sliced open her throat and wrists. Of how you sat there and smoked a cigarette as she bled shamelessly in your bathtub. Don't forget cutting out her heart.
Speak all about how you killed my sister.
Now, beg as I repeat it with you.