His breath spreads a scent of death.

Bloodlust lingers in the air, a gentle caress.

 

She strains against fear as strong as steel

Strapped down, naked, starving, begging for a light.

Anything but those eyes, the ones that stare back

Maliciously showing false contrite.

 

A blackened room, devoid of hope,

The rot and disgust, fully palpable

As she scurries across bloodied constructs

In search of exit, sliding on human chyme

Like a rat in a maze, puppeteered

Into an assault of blades and a cross,

Marking her inevitable grave.

 

He pushes here down.

Sweat makes her slip.

Her breath held in shock.

In prayer for her passing be quick,

For the torment may cease.

His eyes flicker with light, a smile of knowing:

A peculiar portrait of passionate slaughter.

Joy crawls upon his face as laughter,

As he views her whimper in agony and fright.

 

He sees her surrender in her brow, her eyes sparkling.

With tear-eyed euphoria, he begins breaking her fingers.

Her screams: tantamount to his pleasure.

He pulls out a razor, and to her skin he applies;

Across her cheeks: a grin of cruel fallacy,

Slashed past her breast, an unholy horizon,

Down her midsection and across again

Saint Peter’s mark of inferiority.

Circling her arms: twin snakes of liquid.

Blood trickling out in beautiful red ribbons,

In harmonious contrast to her dirtied pale skin.

Her screams reduced to sobs of hopeless endurance.

 

She may only pray for an end.

Her voice an unheard angel’s cry,

The purest testament to human suffering, lapped up

And devoured by a single man.

A single being who gains just as purest a joy

From the taking of innocent life.

The one whom plays God

May not always play nice.