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Rhetorical Death

Oh, I never asked you for your decision. The difference between right and wrong. Whether it’s moral or not. I just like to have a little fun. Isn't that a good enough reason?

I lick my lips, feel the blood dripping off my knife. One, two, three, splatter of blood.

I said to not ask questions. To state your purpose, did I mean it rhetorically? Perhaps not.

Glorious, exhilarated thoughts running through my mind. Caressing your pale skin, had I really done it so fast?

The stale air will soon mix with the stench of rot. No one will know.

Glint in my eye, smile upon my lips, your weak attempt of fighting me off.

There I whisper, “Hell awaits

Your sweet soul.

Your pretty face.

It’ll tear it away.
Burn you down.
Cease to exist.
Forget me not.
I’ll enjoy the time we had.”

Knock of wood, break it down. Here I am, are you ready?

Oh, sweet victim, sweet girl with the luscious curls and fake eyelashes with mascara tears down your cheeks. Don’t look down, let me do the work.

My mind is off, I cannot think. I do my work, do not ask.

Blood hits the ground.

I tell myself that living forever must be wonderful. Or awful. What is it like?

Is that a rhetorical question?

Don’t think, just do.

The knife falls. I am done for the day. Sweet dreams, pretty.

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