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Viewing Single Post From: Laisse tomber les filles
nope
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throw that pussy like i'm famous
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Her screaming did little to cover the sounds of unzipping skin. She gripped the shard tightly as she drove it in and dully felt it ruin her own palm. Her skin came more undone with every push. She only pushed harder. She pushed until the glass found absolute resistance. It wasn’t enough. She wanted to cut deeper. She wanted to tear his throat out with her teeth. She wanted to break his skull between her thighs and to rip his spine out. She wanted to fucking devour him.

She twisted the glass as she pulled it out. The tip broke off, lodged in something hard and wet. She felt a viscid flood run against the back of her hand. She brought the shard down again. It caught fabric but ripped through it easily, slashing through intact neck-flesh and widening the ragged maw that was vomiting thick blood out of Bill’s throat. His screams became awful and wet as his flailing became heavier. He pushed against her and slipped through her arms, collapsing hard on a sheet of glass debris. A scythe of it made a damp sucking sound as it sliced through his back. He gurgle-screamed. Blood flecked across the barrel of his gun. She thought of jamming it in his mouth and splashing his head across the room as she slowly crushed over the littered floor towards him.

The boy made sloshing gasps as he right-handedly fumbled in his dampening hoodie. His left side cradled the shotgun. To their right, a recently-opened Marion was still churning out dead blood from the holes that gun had made. She kicked at the boy’s side. He groaned, but it wasn’t the sopping, defeated sound she thirsted for. She watched him lift the gun. She let him reload, reversing towards his head as she watched him struggle pathetically with the shells. She watched his face. Blood babbled out from the corners of his mouth as he stretched it open. She savored it for a moment.

His cheekbone surrendered easily against her heel. The crack was satisfying. She wanted more. He needed to scream louder.

She nearly brought her leg up for a second descent before she noticed the sheath of blood that now covered the back of it.

Any appetite she’d had was suddenly replaced by shock. Then, nausea. Blood fountained cartoonishly from the meaty crevice in his neck. The front of his collar edged into the wound and rocked slightly against the spewing pressure. The sight was ridiculous. He brought the neckline of his hoodie against the erupting cleave and desperately tried to push against the flow. His legs kicked and dragged against the floor, grinding the scattered mirror under them to a harsh snow. The sounds of ripping wet garbage filled the room from his flooding mouth.

Rhory took slow steps backwards. A flail of his arm sent the blood-dotted gun skittering across the floor. Her back stopped against an intact mirror pane and she slid rigidly down it as she watched the boy’s body cast itself in its own blood. She clutched her bleeding hand to her sweater. Hour-long minutes of pulpy groans passed.

The room filled with a coppery fog.
She began to notice her own sick sobs as the body’s noise stopped.
She wondered how long she’d been crying.

Her sobbing slowly melted to heavy breaths. She stared dimly past the two sopping piles of meat. She was still for hours or minutes. The difference didn’t seem to matter. The only thing to mark the time was the slow invasion of flies






and a spreading feeling of warmth at her side.

Blood from her hand saturated the thin fistful of her sweater and began to moisten her skin inside. A weak jolt of adrenaline focused her eyes. Creeping panic formed in her chest. She moved her hand away. Peeling thin clots and a flap of palm and worsening the bleeding. Her ring finger clung helplessly to the fabric as she tried and failed to move it. She brought a shaky left hand up to the blood-soaked crippled digit. Tried to press it against the palm. It crumpled against it. She couldn’t feel it. She stared at her mangled half-numb hand until her blood began to drum against the floor. There was so much. So bright, so fast. She needed to keep it in. She desperately whirled her eyes around the flotsam. Looking for a dam.

She looked across the room and swallowed hard.




The straps of her pilfered property swung against her shoulder as she stepped over Logan. She expected some feeling of regret, some sting of guilt. She had killed him. She had put him in front of a gun. All that came as her other foot reached across his gutted back was a distant sense of nausea.

The air was heavier there. The top floor had been humid with fresh gore, moist and somehow light. It was a more solid stench down here. Flies caked every edible surface. They had wormed their way in through passages light failed to reach. A family of them sucked at the blood hardening her ruined jacket. She knelt by them. A heavily bandaged hand irritated them as it dug into a pocket. It gingerly extracted a pack of Camel Lights and a small black Zippo lighter. The flies resumed their feasting as she lit the tip of one of the cigarettes with her unbutchered hand. The rest went into a back pocket as she lifted herself. She caught her reflection. She stared at it for several long moments. She took a long drag and blew smoke out at the mirror.

She adjusted the straps that weren’t hers and placed the cigarette back between her lips and made slow steps forward.

((Rhory Anne Broderick continued in ))
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