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The ticking beat of a killer heart

Last updated on 28.06.2020

Table of Contents

Introduce

A clock strikes midnight as he twistingly pulled the knife out of her firm stomach, the sight and sound of oozing blood filling the dingy air. She crumpled down at his feet; guttural chokes shaking the foundation that the prospect of a long life was built on, until silence. As the ticking beat of her dying heart had seized, he had finally saved her from what he perceived to be the horror of life.

It was not the darkness shrouding the narrow gaps in the alleyway that doomed the atmosphere of the already dense city air, nor was it the shadows peering out of the eerie labyrinth created by the narrowing walls. It was him, and the impulsive, sickening bliss that radiated off of his sinister smile in the streams of dim light. Him, as he stood watching the life drain from her once heavenly eyes as the scarlet liquid poured from the hole in her stomach and dripped down onto the stained cement floor, waiting.

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Main part

The alleyway stood quiet, no noise airing besides the soft, steady breathes that emanated from his dry, parted lips. He could still hear the muffled chimes of a clock striking midnight that had pierced the humid air only moments prior. The usual loud orchestra of the hustling city had died down to a muted buzz, the people having long retired to the enchanting call of sleep. The stone walls of the back street’s buildings seemed to trap the silence and the blackened evening sky above, appeared to be drowning out the grisly scene that it discovered below, the stars having already closed their eyes to avoid peering down at the unfortunate fate that had befell her. She would’ve appeared to be sleeping, having been pulled away from life in a captivating dream, until one would observe her more closely. Her eyes were open but not seeing, her golden hair was speckled with drops of blood, her dress was ruined by a fresh red stain accompanied by the gaping gash in her abdomen and her once glowing skin had paled to a ghostly grey.

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The weight of the six-inch Bowie knife in his hand was comforting. The smooth silver blade that seemed to seamlessly morph into the dark wooden handle, as if it were created to be the perfect instrument for the abhorrent spectacle that had played out. He twisted the knife in his hands as if he could slice the streams of moonlight floating in the alley into meager fractions of broken hope. He felt joy, not the usual joy experienced by many people, a joy that is soft and jubilant in nature; but rather, a joy that sprung from careless and perverse occasions. She, however, felt death. The stale fragrance of the city had now been coated by the scent of her blood and he could not believe how intoxicating the smell was to him. It was as though the heavens had perfumed her blood for the intention of sweetening the vile, rotting stench of Earth.

Conclusion

As he stared into her lifeless eyes, they appeared to be staring back at him. The twinge of guilt he had felt once he had retracted his knife from her stomach was strong, but it fleeted along with her life force. His heart, enveloped by the darkness around them, had stopped beating along with hers. He had become a hollow shell of his previous self.

He strived to feel his heart beat once more, feel the beat that counted along the seconds like the ticking of a clock. A beat that could only be felt when being drained from another. And so he was destined to continue, saving countless young woman whose hearts beat in time with the horrible clock of life.

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