Staring at the white wall in front of her, Lust sees herself much like the wall, perhaps their lives are even similar.

The wall listens, but does not speak, is present, but goes for the most part, unnoticed.

Blank, empty, and ready to be covered in blood, this wall is more of a mirror than a simple slab of bricks.

A blink signals her return to the real world, a return to the treat that awaited, this was her reward, a sick reward to most, but to Lust it was sheer excitement to be on the job and process according to her own desire.

She crumbles the yogurt box, throws it in the trash and turns on the water.

The water pouring from the sink, starts up a slight twitch in the victim.

Washing your hands before any contact under skin is always indicated. Always. Even if the victim lay above the sink.

Lust enjoyed maintaing a certain cleanliness, although she knew that this future corpse did not need sterile sculpting of any kind.

Gritting her teeth, she begins to dig into the superficial abdomen with the K-24 Fanno hand saw, however this tool appears to be much more rough than Lust had anticipated.

Glistening knives flash through her mind as she half smiles at the whore  in front of her.

“You’ll be fine, my dear, not much difference is there between your plastic surgery endeavors, and this. Also, if you complain about lack of anesthesia, do tell your doctor that I didn’t get the fucking memo in time. That is… if you can tell him.”

Lust stands in front of her knife case, much like Hitler stood affront his army, her knives screamed at her much like his soldiers would scream to him that they would make him most proud.

Well, in that moment, the antique Bowie Knife she had received from her father as a birthday gift seemed to be the one that would make her most proud indeed.

She got elbows deep into the victims torso, the liver hanging upside down off the counter much like a fallen cord phone, the lungs cut into precise 2″ inch cubes set into an oval shape around the head, no reason.

She could feel drops running down her forehead, but they were not of sweat, Lust knew the task would be strenuous and set the air condition to an uncomfortable low, therefore this meant that the drops were of blood.
Warm blood.

Acting on impulse, she allowed herself to loose control, not just physically, but mentally.

She gave in.

She gave in to the instinct, the desire, and the want to cut flesh open.

All humans had it.

She just decided to be smart and make money while doing it.

The victims right leg spasmed as Lust smirked at this thought and continued cutting.

In an ironic chuckle, she is reminded subtly of what line of work she is in.

She puts out her cigarette in the pot of flowers on the windowsill, no flower ever died of a tobacco overdose now did it.

The silver lines on her knives screamed of impatience as she checked their positioning once more.

The black handle on her scalpel ran lightly through her fingers, much like a small child running through a field of tall grass, only lightly touching the tips.

The white walls of this apartment made Lust consider redecoration. Blood red was, of course, her definite preference. 

At not a moments notice, the creak of the apartment door made its way to Lusts ear.

Quick to react, a gun was pulled from the holster on her waist and directed towards the chest of this poor soul.

If only she could pause that moment to bring herself inches away from this persons face.

To see the pupils dilate and the face muscles contract of fear.

Fear had never been portrayed so beautifully.

She could even see the detailed drops of perspiration flow down the plastically enhanced cheeks of perfection.

This broad had been the typical definition of beautiful, fake acrylic decorations on fingers, false extensions of hair intertwined with bleach blonde assets, and silicone under the skin of both her lips, and breasts.

“Your boy toy is laying dead in the bedroom, if you take my instruction, you may not end up like him.”

Much like a naive little girl, the victims eyes poured with desire of mercy, but Lust was in no such state of mind, her grip on the gun loosened knowing that she had reeled in the bait. 

“You will count your each step and walk into the kitchen. I will follow you simultaneously after which you will lay yourself on the kitchen counter with your lower back laying over the sink.”

As the young woman stepped nervously to the kitchen, Lust grabbed the K-24 Fanno hand saw and watched from the corner of her eye as the bimbo climbed atop the counter.

A knife was placed next to the area in order to be put at the neck of the victim which in turn was forced to take 400 mg of diphenhydramine and became induced in a trance of anesthesia and sleep prone symptoms.

This allowed Lust to work without having to restrain the victim, besides, she always enjoyed a bit of a struggle.

With the same knife, Lust slit the victims vocal cords and was no longer annoyed by the high-pitched yelps the wench made.

At this moment in time, Lust decided to serve her lunch and continue the fun afterwards, yogurt is best served at room temperature anyway.

No thoughts or repercussions,

Just the quiet, yet lively sound of my heart beating, and my lungs breathing.

My writing is nothing.

My art? Impressive only to the masses that approve at quick glance.

My soul? Disapproving and profusely rebellious.

Hidden.

Shown at rare occasions where vulenerability doesn’t play its typical role.

I’m a writer. A painter. A dreamer, lover, and non-returnable 30 days after purchase.

Good god.

Somebody make some lemonade, my brain hurts and my ankle isn’t doing great either.

“Are you some fucking nut job?”

“Nut job? No…I just like watching others drive me around. You are going to drive me the rest of the way to Vegas, and no funny stuff yes? Because I wouldn’t want to piss me off. I can count the capillaries under your skin if you’d like. Understood?”

“And after we get there? What happens to me?”

“Nothing. You drive, do your duty for me, and it ends.”

A hesitant approval synchronized with the click of a lighter and the smoke escapes between her lips.

“What do you think of this country?”

“What do I think of this country? I think its full of whacks like yourself miss.”

“Maybe you aren’t as dumb as I thought.”

“How so?”

“You seem to be realistic at least.”

“And what if I am like this because of all the other “normal” people here? What if the sheer pressure of society bearing on me to be normal has subsided me into being completely “whack” as you describe it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Indeed, you would not.”

She checks her watch, been a while since she last slept, but the three coffees and vodka did its duties, about 40 minutes away she decides to read the newspaper, perhaps a place where she will go unnoticed will do for now.

The color of her hair will also need to be rendered to a light blonde perhaps, to change the general appearance and disguise the identity.

She turns her head towards him, his behavioral signs do not tell of anxiety, fear, or any of these expected signs.

The light of the moon hits his lips, showing a profile she just now admires.

She bites her bottom lip.

Lust?

Desire?

Maybe she will not discard him as quickly as she thought.

Just maybe.

A sense of completion grows as realization of the events occurred sink in, many years and hours of planning have come to an end, it is done, bids signed, blasphemous inquiry due to further rendering will cease.

Petting her freshly cut hair, a small smile creeps causing light wrinkles that will never truly show to make their presence.

The mind cannot but fully comprehend the shallow feeling of the love for power, yet so dangerously subdued in her thoughts, she cannot help but be reminded that the end soon awaits.

A call need take place, a task need be finished, never to understand she spares him of her naive belief in love and hopeless possibility.

A true dedication to the one she held dear, he will now and forever be somewhere beautiful, away from the dark and grotesque, the fearful and mundane.

As the first fall of dry leaves in calm autumn, or the mild breeze of winter hitting warm cheeks on a thursday afternoon. Patiently waiting, she sets refusal to high priority.

Material of inexplicable joy, her hand dances to the beautiful sonata carelessly wandering through the walls of imprisonment, a sip of illegal concoction will relieve all tenuous strain.

Ah what a beautiful site a good accomplishment is, Vesalius would be proud, complete de-scripture of the human stomach, a beautiful site ever to be found on the second shelf of cherry wood lines.

Preparing for certain understanding, she misses the dot on the i, and crosses the t with revering charm. The slight raise in her eye brow signals the promise of content, perhaps entitled to opinion, a slight gesture in the hand, superb engineering continues.

Dilated bright red sits precariously up-top a silver utensil, and what a beautiful song to take place in such an event.

An elegant bow, and the still audience remains motionless, these shoes will tap their way to your frontal lobe, numb instillment will run its way to pure finding.

Not to understand, only if known by truth, she sits in the puddle of blue royally touched by oxygen.

Stiffness surrounds her, as her apron drenched in cells shows insanity at its finest, only but a while ago layed the two souls unbound.

Only but a while ago.