The newspapers label me a “serial killer.” I don’t really like that. I consider myself an artist, and I love my art. I love the hunting, the stalking, the anticipation, that first stab, the blood. Oh god, do I love the blood.
I reach into my jacket and feel the box cutter.
“I have to admit,” I tell her. “This is my favorite part.”
She turns to face me, “Mine too.”
Shocked, I drop my box cutter. She lunges and bites into my neck. I can smell her hair. It smells like blood.
Oh god, do I love the blood.
Author’s Note: Always a fan of when a potential victim turns the tables.
Clara entered the bedroom. It was slightly hazy and smelled of sandalwood.
“What took so long?” asked Rae.
“Did you get it?” asked Becky.
“I got it,” Clara said, holding up a small brown paper bag. “Had some trouble with the crow’s beak, but I eventually managed to find some.”
Becky snatched the bag from her, and emptied the contents into a brass bowl.
“You sure this is going to work?” asked Clara.
It’ll work,” said Becky. “We just need one last ingredient.”
“Yeah?” said Clara. “What’s that?”
Before she could react, Rea plunged a dagger into her chest.
Author’s Note: When teenage games go too far.