She knew she wanted to kill him, the moment he pressed his knuckles into the delicate hollow of her throat. Possibly by bullet; a crimson stain seeping across his stark white shirt. His rough hands loosen clenched thighs or she could delight in the sweet sound of bones cracking as he
falls in a silent heap at the bottom of the stair, such searing stabbing pain, ah, that delicious pop as she pierces his tender flesh, pressed against her his breath smells of whiskey
and stale cigarettes or maybe a satisfying crushing blow of a blunt instrument. A look of fear snakes across his face; there is violence behind those once tender and laughing eyes.
photo from Deviant Art
