She

He was a tall kid, strong and lean with a muscular jaw, but young, you know, kinda green around the edges. That’s why she’d chosen him. In the half-light she gracefully swung her legs over the side of the bed and, perched on the edge, pulled on her slips and began to refasten her bra. He stirred and shuffled over towards her, reaching out to wrap his arms around her tiny waist. She batted him away, and he repostured himself; stretched out diagonally across the mattress, naked, propped up by his elbow, his head resting upon his hands. She grabbed the camera from the bedside table and rose, spinning round quickly to take a shot of him.
“Hey,” he said, and hastily reposition his hands to cover his modesty.
She laughed, a devilish little caw of delight, her head thrown back so the light caught the tips of her blonde curls.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “they’re for my own, private collection. No-one will see them, I promise.” Then she began circling him, taking shots from all directions, swooping down at him from all angles. He chuckled to himself and began to play up for the camera. He pulled a pose and flexed his muscles, grinning stupidly.
“How do I look?” he asked.”
“Absolutely delicious,” she replied, flashing him a wicked grin. “Here take a look.”
She handed him the camera, and he switched the viewscreen to playback. She studied  him intently; watched his brow furrow, his pupils enlarge, his mouth slowly open wider and wider.
“What the fuck!” he said, and the blood drained from his youthful face. He skimmed through the pictures, they we’re all the same; the dead eyes the gaping wound, the blood-stained sheets.
He looked up, she stood above him, the tip of the blade glinting blue in the half-light. It was too late.

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Tim Waltho

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