Tonight They Die

By He who is unnamed, they die tonight.

I flex my fingers against the warm fabric of my bed. The satin sheet slides smoothly under them. Crimson and flowing. It is good to wake up with a goal. It is even better to wake up when the sun has already past its apex, in its dying state. It is glorious when both coincide, and I considered it a good omen.

I thought about stepping out of bed, then shuddered at the thought of cold floors.

I watched the sun through barely-opened eyes, just letting the barest flicker of its light lick across my corneas. I didn't much care for the sun, but I cared less for cold floors. If only there was a way to get the warmth without the sun.

They are warm. When I kill them tonight, they will most certainly be warm, and the blood pooling across the tile will most definitely warm it. If I killed them upstairs, then I could watch it run down the stairs. Blood running down the stairs--it was almost poetic. I considered walked across blood-warmed tile, then made a face. While it would indeed keep the chill from it, it would be hell to clean off my feet, and I certainly wasn't going to clean it up later.

Besides, the blood would cool too quickly, and never tasted as good as it smelled.

Still, they would have to die. I was bored with them. They would be slaughtered--perhaps disemboweled. I rather liked the sound of the word "disemboweled" more than the actual practice. It's a very messy procedure, and rarely worth the spectacle.

While goals are good, too much planning spoils the artistry of the act. I think I would simply sink my teeth into their flesh and see where my bloody muse took me. I stretched lazily. I felt . . . neat today. Perhaps a--

What was that?

Can Opener!
Can Opener!

They would survive another night.