The Death Scene You've Been Waiting For

Today is Blogfest day!! *whistles and throws confetti in ecstasy* And in honor of the day I have this LINK to a blog post I read the other day about death, that I thought was particularly interesting. Plus there's this LINK to the list of other people doing blogfests. (At least, I hope it is. If not there will be trouble.) Just so you know, I will be in Canada over the weekend to attend Polaris, so it will take me a few days to actually get around to reading everyone else's stuff, but don't worry. I will.

Carrying on!

At first, I was going to just take a scene out of my wip's, but then I realized that all of my deaths are way too important, and would give away Huge plot moments, and I wasn't comfortable doing that. So I hemmed, and I hawed, and Cyan hopped out of the blue and attacked my face with ideas and out came this really bizarre little scene. I hope you like! (Oh, and just so you know, critical comments are welcome. As long as you're nice about it, I'm fine. I like to learn how to be better, so...) Oh! And I couldn't think of a name for the one girl, and the only one I coud think of was Tess, because of Tessa, so I named her after Tessa (sorry about the way your character... Well, you'll find out.)

“Hello.” Cyan hopped into the kitchen, waved profusely at my friend (his name don’t matter). Then she grinned. “Good-bye!” With a small twist of her wrist the knife was in his body, and then it was out. His eyes bugged wide and his mouth made a desperate attempt at talking. Didn’t last long. Soon he was on the floor, as dead as the others I had watched her kill.

She proceeded to try and check her reflection in the knife, but it’s hard to do that when a knife is still dripping with fresh blood. Cyan frowned a little bit, brushed off the knife on my (dead) friend’s already ugly shirt, and then fussed with her perfectly curly, way too blonde, hair.

“Hey, Cyan. Was that necessary?”

She gave me a quick glance, her eyes widened. “Oh, Fred, I didn’t see you.” I hate it when she calls me Fred. She knew it too. “How awful.” Way too quickly she was standing next to me, smelling faintly of lavender and peppermint, a heady mixture that I don’t like none.

“You gotta’ keep killing?”

“Of course.” She laughed, like I was some awful comedian and she was some polite person trying to make me feel better. I don’t think it helped. At all.

“Jus’ don’t touch Tess.”

“I touch who I want,” Cyan whispered, gave me a peck on the cheek while brushing her knife against the other side of my face. One cheek was left with lipstick, the other one with blood. “Don’t forget it. Buh-bye!” She waved and flounced outta’ the room. I glared at her.

Always left me to clean up her messes. It took a darn too long time to find a proper place to hide the body she had left behind. And by the time that was done, it was too late to meet Tess. I hated Cyan, but I guess that’s just repeating the obvious, isn’t it?

And I would’ve gone on hating her, and hating her, and not doing nothing about it. Until about three weeks later. Now, I can’t go into detail about what Cyan is, or even why she does what she does (mainly ‘cause I’d be killed and I ain’t a fan of me being dead) but I can tell you this. We’ve been friends a good amount of time. Sure, we don’t particularly like each other, but that don’t stop us from being on friendly terms. I left her friends alone (a’ course, she didn’t have many, but was that my fault?) and in return I expected the same favor.

I forgot. She don’t have no brain in her messed up little brain.

It had been a long day of working for the bosses (again, can’t tell or I’ll be offed) and I opened Tess’ apartment door. I was all ready to here about her day, to cuddle up next to her while we sipped at hot tea (for her) and coffee (for me). Sure, it don’t sound like something a tough guy like me would like, but shut yer trap and open yer mind. Tess did that to you. And I’m still man enough to torture your face off, so don’t breathe a word or your fingers will end up in dome garbage disposal device.

I kicked off my shoes at the door, since she liked her carpets to be clean and all. And I called out, “Hey, Tess, Rick’s here.” (My name’s Frederick, but most everyone calls me Rick, ‘cept Cyan but you already know she’s whacked out and hates me, so no need to repeat, right?)

She didn’t answer, which wasn’t like her at all. I knocked on the wall by the kitchen, ‘cause she was real particular about the kitchen, and always ragged on me about how I had to knock first, or else she’d jump from surprise and knock herself out with a pot. So I did. I knocked and then I stopped because I saw Tess, and she wasn’t knocked out from a pan, or nothing. It was worse. Much worse.

She were dead.

Blood was dried and matted around her pretty lil’ head, her face was more white than brittle ice, and her eyes were open and staring at me like little glass marbles.

I knelt to the ground, whispering her name, lookin’ like some mangy of a mutt. It don’t matter. Nothing did right then. I crawled over to her, pulled her into my lap, got blood all over my ratty jeans, and I wouldn’t stop muttering her name. She didn’t answer none. It’s hard to, when you’re dead. I blubbered like a cow, still didn’t matter none.

But then I saw how she had died. It wasn’t the head wound, that musta’ come before, ‘cause it wasn’t deep enough to have killed her. There was a hole in her stomach, the same shape as Cyan’s knife.

I was going to kill that good-for-nothing daughter of a would-be thug. But first I had to clean up Tess, wrap her up in one of her brightly patterned afghans. Then I buried her, and tried to cry over her all proper, but all my grief was gone and I only wanted one thing more.

Revenge.

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