Loser

It was hot, sticky without a breeze in the slasher film themed bedroom, the girl in the middle of it sobbed. Her tears leave clean skin as a roadway along all the dirt and splattered gore on her small face. She could feel it all dripping, from her hair to her shoulders, the tips of her slim fingers onto the wooden floor. The blood. Scrunched off to the side of the room was the producer of it all. The man who had given her the clothes she wore, the food gurgling in her stomach, the one who created every eyelash the tears hung to. Left stabbed and brutalized in his little girls room, the room he painted blue to match those sparkling eyes of hers, it was stained red. All because he could not stop, not when she screamed, not when she cried, not even with the first slice. Distastefully he had gotten too used to the way she felt, he touched and would not stop. The girl had grown into hate and overall a gruesome look at the people and visions around her. Her birthright was to be loved and to love others, he had taken all of that from her. Left her with a pain so deep, and he enjoyed it. So, she made sure she would enjoy the anguish she caused him.