The Piano Has Been Drinking
Posted: Sun Oct 14, 2018 5:16 am
((Continued from: Mending))
It honestly felt a bit odd.
The coldness of the shower washed itself over pale skin as it hit the moldy tile of the floor. Staring from the bottom up, this was honestly a very plain view, his feet? Far too small, a size six or seven and his toe nails seemed to be horrifically maintained. Moving upwards the various bruised and kicked off pieces of skin from gangly, pale, and almost comically "chicken" legs. Finally, resting upon the goose bumped thighs, manhood shriveled up partly due to stress, partly due to the coldness of the water, and partly due to the rather blatant tension that anyone could attack you at any moment.
Moving upwards to the stomach it was obviously one of a skinny person who had made some effort to be well fed. It wasn't concaved, simply flat, a bellybutton that went inward. Finally reaching the bird chest, a rib cage very visible, small pink nipples, erected by the general coldness mentioned before where covered by what seemed to be a leather belt, of course looking at his back made it clear that it was simply the strap of a sword sheathed. His shoulders lacked any broadness, his biceps lacked almost all muscular definition. His face, his face was now a pinkish color and tightly fitted, no nose. No lips. No features, purely a skull. A skull with black hair that seemed to drip muck and dried blood. This creature was weak, this creature lacked any appealing feature. This boy was naked and vulnerable.
This boy was the top killer on the island.
Four deaths, each of various skill and fitting many social archetypes. Josh Goodman was the valedictorian, a renowned cut throat business type who after one day in the school maintained a vice grip on all activities and sports. Kara Holmes was the captain of the cheerleading team, very attractive and the girlfriend to one of the star football players. Rebecca Bradbury was the archetypical depressed, poetry writing Goth girl. Trey Leyton was the star of the wrestling team and fundamentally a good guy whom nobody could really hate.
They had all died, brutally by his hand.
Yet as one looked at the vacant emerald eyes of the boy who simply washed himself. Groaned in pain as the soap entered the open wounds of his face. You couldn't really view him as anything more than a victim of what seemed to be an assault, a stream of urine reached the floor and it mixed with remnants of the soap, the boy simply let out a gasp as the water rapidly warmed up and he allowed himself to fully engulf himself in the steam, he stared at himself as he sat down next to his bag, his skinny buttocks feeling nice on the grimy tile of the floor. He rested his back against the wall, allowed the hot water to hit his thighs and pulled out his guns and began loading them.
If there was an intruder, they probably would be meeting Blood Boy when he was closest to obtaining inner peace.
It honestly felt a bit odd.
The coldness of the shower washed itself over pale skin as it hit the moldy tile of the floor. Staring from the bottom up, this was honestly a very plain view, his feet? Far too small, a size six or seven and his toe nails seemed to be horrifically maintained. Moving upwards the various bruised and kicked off pieces of skin from gangly, pale, and almost comically "chicken" legs. Finally, resting upon the goose bumped thighs, manhood shriveled up partly due to stress, partly due to the coldness of the water, and partly due to the rather blatant tension that anyone could attack you at any moment.
Moving upwards to the stomach it was obviously one of a skinny person who had made some effort to be well fed. It wasn't concaved, simply flat, a bellybutton that went inward. Finally reaching the bird chest, a rib cage very visible, small pink nipples, erected by the general coldness mentioned before where covered by what seemed to be a leather belt, of course looking at his back made it clear that it was simply the strap of a sword sheathed. His shoulders lacked any broadness, his biceps lacked almost all muscular definition. His face, his face was now a pinkish color and tightly fitted, no nose. No lips. No features, purely a skull. A skull with black hair that seemed to drip muck and dried blood. This creature was weak, this creature lacked any appealing feature. This boy was naked and vulnerable.
This boy was the top killer on the island.
Four deaths, each of various skill and fitting many social archetypes. Josh Goodman was the valedictorian, a renowned cut throat business type who after one day in the school maintained a vice grip on all activities and sports. Kara Holmes was the captain of the cheerleading team, very attractive and the girlfriend to one of the star football players. Rebecca Bradbury was the archetypical depressed, poetry writing Goth girl. Trey Leyton was the star of the wrestling team and fundamentally a good guy whom nobody could really hate.
They had all died, brutally by his hand.
Yet as one looked at the vacant emerald eyes of the boy who simply washed himself. Groaned in pain as the soap entered the open wounds of his face. You couldn't really view him as anything more than a victim of what seemed to be an assault, a stream of urine reached the floor and it mixed with remnants of the soap, the boy simply let out a gasp as the water rapidly warmed up and he allowed himself to fully engulf himself in the steam, he stared at himself as he sat down next to his bag, his skinny buttocks feeling nice on the grimy tile of the floor. He rested his back against the wall, allowed the hot water to hit his thighs and pulled out his guns and began loading them.
If there was an intruder, they probably would be meeting Blood Boy when he was closest to obtaining inner peace.