One Death

A deep red –the color that was spilled flippantly amongst the threads that weaved together to synthesize a familiar formation of domestic carpeting. The color itself stood out amongst the beige fibers visibly, and due to its liquid state, it stubbornly infiltrated the fibers, effectively remaining there permanently.

Immersed within her own gratification, Sophie took out her old rag and wiped the used knife clean. One kill, that was all. One kill would suffice to ease her corrupt conscience, or in kinder terms, poignant curiosity. The manner of death would certainly attract the attention of the police, but Sophie was well aware of their distinction; she intended for the obscenity to become public.

Sophie was not particularly idiosyncratic. Though most killers possess their own eccentricity, she was not as profound as most of the other damaged hearts, if such a description could even satisfy the discretional values of a killer, or rather than the absence acceptable morals. Sophie simply killed this woman in the first manner to reach her mind –a stabbing.

She didn't consider herself psychotic. Even the death of another, by her own hands, did not faze her in the least. In fact, she relished in the deceased's weakness's; which could be the very indication of a demented soul, though Sophie distinguished her own soul as the exception to the nature of any other killer. After all, it was only one death by her hands.

The woman whose life she stole was no particular nuisance amongst Sophie's conscience; she held no grudge against the victim. Her reasoning simply existed, covered by the basic definition of aforementioned curiosity itself. Now she knows how it feels, and today she still wouldn't be able to describe the altering effects it partook among the basic morals and general cleanliness of the human consciousness.