Perfect Muse

         I counted the strikes of the city’s church-bell. Every chime I felt the blade drive into me, cutting and pulling out. Leaving wound after wound. I remember counting to nine before my screams became too loud. The warm blood streaming down my back was a terrifying comfort in the cold night. The street lights reflected in the bright red puddle forming beside me. I tried to form words through my screams but everything died out. The bell had stopped ringing, now all that was left were the wet squishing sounds of the knife and the panting. When he came close enough I could feel his breath on me.
         His cuts were forceful but not angry. This was not an impulsive act. Every incision was meant to be there. I don’t know how long he was carving away at me but when he was finally done the blood had gone cold. My body shivered sending flashes of pain through me. At the very least it kept me awake. He put down the knife and leaned in.
         I welcomed his warmth as he whispered ‘Thank you, you were the perfect muse.’ He took a picture and simply walked away. The swagger of someone who knew no fear.
         I couldn’t move it felt like I was frozen to the stone. Hurried footsteps woke me from the tempting cold sleep. ‘Don’t worry help is on the..’ As the girl came to a stop beside me her gasping cries made her pause. ‘I saw the whole thing.’ She showed me a video filmed from down the street and zoomed in on his face, clear as day. ‘Do you want to see what he did?’ I couldn’t answer, couldn’t move. When she showed me the picture I closed my eyes hoping to never open them again.