Rip Her

He wakes slowly. Everything feels right. Easy. He watches her breathe, deep and steady. Her auburn hair, so often worn in a tight bun, now pooling around her. And something snaps. Her hair stirring memories, not quite his own, but still somehow memories. A lovely blonde. Sticky, dark puddles matting her hair to the bricks in the alley. Lips pouting, eyes glassed over. Throat leaking a slow dribble. And stomach missing all essentials. His eyes refocus on the dark haired kitten in a foreign bed. His bare feet tread light and quiet through the dim room with only starlight and a dying fire in the grate to guide him. His fingers close on the straight razor like a long-forgotten friend. And the metallic blade slides through the pale skin at her throat, easy as cutting the flesh of a peach. And the blue veins gush cataracts of contrasting scarlet. And the early morning sun finds her still and breathless. Insides spilled across the room. Face an unrecognizable mask of jagged cuts. Nightdress bloody between the legs. And the early morning sun finds the attic of his mind reawakened. Newborn shadows dancing across the weathered floorboards mixing with echoes screaming through the open halls. And early morning sun finds him a hunter of human flesh. Early morning sun rises on the rebirth of terror.