Blood trickled through the fingers,
Of an innocent victim,
Lonely and crying,
But nothing could save them,

A thing reaches out,
Ripping into her heart,
Ice cold, and paling hands,
Tearing her chest apart,

She sits all alone,
Under a blood red sky,
She plans out the deeds,
Until morning is nigh,

When the time was right,
She crept through the empty halls,
Hiding in the shadows,
Pressed up against the walls,

Coming closer to the room,
She shivered and paused,
Was this right? Was this pure?
Was this worth all the pain he’d caused?

Determination was dead set on her face,
An irony that she would never understand,
She stands over his sleeping form,
A gleaming knife within her hand,

She smiled an evil half smile,
Guilt etched across her face,
But she shoved it to the back of her mind,
And pain and anger took it’s place,

The knife plunged deep into his heart,
As his eyes snapped open a final time,
He asked the silent question of “why?”
But it was his final chime,

His blood was forever stained on her skin,
Though she tried to wash it off,
The answer to his question was forever stuck in her throat,
His death was not enough,

The memory was still with her,
Of all the pain he’d caused her,
The abuse, the sex, the suffering,
But he still hadn’t understood her,

He had asked her why on his dying bed,
Soaked in his own wretched blood,
With those words she had wanted to kill him again and again,
And lay his wicked body in the mud,

Her head rested against the frosted window,
His question still rang in her head,
“Because” she answered simply, to herself but also him,
“you deserved to be dead.”
 
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