I walked down the dusty old path with a blank look on my face. I didn't know what was happening. I was so confused, I was speechless. On the outside I was just a pretty girl with golden hair. I wore a satin blue dress that draped around my waist. I was silent and happy on the outside. Ladylike and beautiful. On the inside, I was a whole different person. I was troubled and rebellious. I was not afraid to speak my mind or disagree with anyone. I was dressed in a short black dress that looked as if it had been torn from the seam. I was angry and jealous and stubborn. Everything around me was dead and mean. Of course, i could never expose my tru
He was not a killer, but an artist.He was a painter. A painter who only used the color red. His blows were brushstrokes that became quick and final. Each man was a fresh canvas, waiting to become a finished masterpiece. He had too much red. So much red that he would have nightmares of himself lying in a pool of it on the ground. The red pool would fill up his mind almost causing him to drown.
He would see flashes of red everywhere he went. In the ruby red of a rose, to the cherry red of a woman's lips. He could not escape it, for once he spilled the first drop, he wanted more. He had a craving for the beauty and heat of the color. It gave him
I walked down the dusty old path with a blank look on my face. I didn't know what was happening. I was so confused, I was speechless. On the outside I was just a pretty girl with golden hair. I wore a satin blue dress that draped around my waist. I was silent and happy on the outside. Ladylike and beautiful. On the inside, I was a whole different person. I was troubled and rebellious. I was not afraid to speak my mind or disagree with anyone. I was dressed in a short black dress that looked as if it had been torn from the seam. I was angry and jealous and stubborn. Everything around me was dead and mean. Of course, i could never expose my tru
He was not a killer, but an artist.He was a painter. A painter who only used the color red. His blows were brushstrokes that became quick and final. Each man was a fresh canvas, waiting to become a finished masterpiece. He had too much red. So much red that he would have nightmares of himself lying in a pool of it on the ground. The red pool would fill up his mind almost causing him to drown.
He would see flashes of red everywhere he went. In the ruby red of a rose, to the cherry red of a woman's lips. He could not escape it, for once he spilled the first drop, he wanted more. He had a craving for the beauty and heat of the color. It gave him