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Masquerade Massacre

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The dagger faltered in my sweaty palm, her eyes watched me closely. Skeptically. If she knew my true motives, my identity would have been exposed. Yet the music continued, an assortment of flashy gowns circling us. Oblivious. Her lips moved but the words were washed away in the air thick with chatter and melodies. I twirled her gracefully, overlooking her previous attempt of communication. I allowed the blade to trail down her exposed back, letting her believe it to be my finger. The urge was irresistible, pure instinct. My nature. She can’t know, she can never know.

“Games…” the word was a faint whisper, but it lingered in the air. She tilted her head slightly, showing her confusion.

“What about them?” her voice made even me, weak in the knees, wanting to come clean. Confess.

“I love them. The manipulation, scheming, conniving, it’s a thrill for me.” I whispered sinisterly. A small smirk formed on her face,

“And what if you don’t win?” the taunting tone was underlying in her voice.

“I always win.” It occurred to me that my tone was clearly dark.

“You never know.” Her smirk grew wide.

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“Don’t hate MY game, hate that YOU’RE the player.” She shot back instantly. The dagger twitched, yearning to bury itself into her feeble body. Vulnerable. There was just something about her, something that told me she wouldn’t be bewildered by my identity. I had to restrain from pulling up her unique abstract masquerade mask, I knew she felt the same way. How we would never know who truthfully lay behind our masks? What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her…would it? I twirled her away from me, knowing that, that would be the last time my body would be pressed to hers. A smile grew on her face as she spun away, a smile I would never see again. BANG!!! BANG!!!! Two loud gunshots rang through the air, cueing the start of familiar terror filled screams. I heard her loud audible gasp even among the shrill shrieks; I felt her eyes piercing into the side of my face. Making me feel the strong need to turn to her, with deep apologetic eyes. Temptation. Resistance. Suddenly the cold, smooth, hard metal felt heavier than usual in my hand.



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Dayum said...
Jun. 15, 2010 at 12:10 pm
This is written as if it's a cut out from a a full novel, which makes it completely unable to follow. I will admit it does make me what to read more. However, when writing a short story, you must remember that just because you know what's going on, doesn't mean your readers will. You would be better at full-novel stories, not shorts. Magnificent story though. (:
 
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