( Authoress's note: This is a very dark piece for me, and I hope that anyone reading this is aware that it is graphic for voilence, gore, and general disturbance. I enjoyed writing it. Thank you!)
It occurred to me today, while watching my sister lying there, bleeding on the floor, that no human is perfect. How funny these detached thoughts can be at such moments; they come without bidding, but I've grown used to the fact that they do come. Only at times like this though, when death is so near I imagine it's breath is in my ear, in tune with the gurgling of blood and air going down dear sister's windpipe. The mixing of elements has always fascinated me. Especially when it involves blood. Fire, water, earth, air...metal. Most especially metal with the mixing of blood does fascinate me on a very primal level.
Ah, but being sidetracked comes so easy these days. Perfection. It doesn't really exist in humanity. No person has ever been perfect. No live person. Certianly no dead person either. Oh my, how she is struggling to let go of life. Oh well.
No, it is not in life, nor in death that humans can be perfect. The transition, however, from live human to dead human, is another matter intirely. This is the point when what was once a human can become something altogether perfect. A creature with no guilt, no greed, no sin. Only will. A will to survive that is ultimately crushed by death. It is because it is crushed that perfection is attained. You cannot fault such heroics if they fail, after all. No one can fault someone for trying.
Take my lovely sister for example. She is an attention whore that would do anything to please anyone. Her children resent her, her husband cheats on her; they're seperated at the moment, though the limelight she'd been getting from all the fuss was an unexpected benefit she was happy to reap. She is as imperfect as could be.
But look at the gentle sloping of her neck as her throat clogs from the blood. Look how utterly helpless that harpy can appear, her eyes doe-like in their innocence. Her legs were chained to the bedframe. They're both still twitching a bit; I must remember to loosen the knots next time. It was after the act of tying her up was done that her throat was slit; with a pen knife that was a gift from our father. So deep it cut, yet the duct tape was a lovely touch. Only a few spirts of blood before it was tightly seeled back in her throat, so she could taste my work of art. Her perfection; and she is so very deliciously perfect right now. Her skirt pulled up about her thighs, her arms held captive by ropes. So delicious.
I started with her friends. Neighbors, cousins, distant relations she didn't often talk to but kept in touch with for sentimental reasons. It wasn't all for her, I made sure of that; it was all for me. I enjoyed every single thing I did to them. I had to, to make their deaths all the more miserable; to make their transitions all the more perfect.
It won't end with her. I'll make sure of that. It won't end with dear, dear Kathy. No one knows. No one suspects. The younger sister; the shadow. The forgotten daughter. The one who could just never reach that strand of perfection all the other Coopers had. I've found my perfection though; and Kathy's. I'll find each and everyone of my brothers' and sisters' perfection before I'm through. Kathy was just the start. Kathy and her gifted words; her beautiful voice. Kathy, the artist of the bunch. Hah. b***h. Kathy was my first gift to myself. The others were just preparation. My other siblings will be the final pieces of the set.
Finally finished. Now to put out a few incriminating pieces. I wouldn't want to get caught after all. And wouldn't it so happen that a few pieces of my bastardly brother-in-law's possesions are just here, waiting to be descovered. He didn't deserve her; he wanted to hurt her. Now the world will think he has.
The newest installments for this story will be in size 18 black, just so you know!
Now my dearest big brother, he's always been the...complicated sort. Always so quiet, so thoughtful. My mother always called him her favorite. Her favorite little boy, though he was only a year youngr than Kathy. He never liked Kathy's choice in men, something we both had in common. We had a lot in common, you see; we both had a toast when they sentenced Richard, that would be Kathy's ex-hubby, to life without the chance of parole. Seems the murder was so horrifying that they called it a 'grotesque mutilation of human life'. If they'd only seen my earlier work. Oh well.
But back to Corry. Such a quiet big brother. I feel he should have known what I'd been up to. But no. He never noticed me. The real me. He only noticed the quiet bookworm underneath it all. He couldn't see the artist inside me through the haze of paperwork he and my moronic cousin would load on me for their business. He had to die.
It seemed almost tragic that he should die without knowing the truth behind the death of his beloved sister.
Reply
