For this experiment, we were supposed to write a story "in media res," which means the story begins in the middle of the action. For some reason, in the middle of the action always starts with something gruesome or demented when I start in that way, as it draws my attention in faster than anything else ever could. I apologize for anyone who is uncomfortable with what I have written below, but please enjoy!
The Coldest Night
The knife penetrating her skin was cold, so cold. The feeling of her skin being torn apart was not. She was on fire. She burned from her core to the ends of her nerves. Her heart beat furiously against the cold steel of the blade. She felt her heart give a last push, as though it had a chance to begin with, before it succumbed to the all encompassing darkness of death.
He removed the blade from her tender flesh in a smooth tug, and wiped it with the terry cloth he kept handy for times like these. The air he breathed was still heated by her dying gasps, so sweet and frail, as she now lay. He felt the corners of his lips tugging upward, and forced himself to resign his face to a neutral, almost bored expression. Standing up, he surveyed his handiwork, satisfied at how artfully he had arranged her. Her arms were splayed outwards, her legs pressed together. Her eyes were still open, still so beautiful under the light of the moon, glistening with tears that would remain forever unshed. Instead of clothing, she was wrapped in a beautiful gossamer sheet, as pale as the hair spread around her head like a halo. He couldn't resist. He let out a small chuckle. She had been the epitome of beauty in life, and in death, she only grew more beautiful. When she would be found, others, too, would see her for the marvelous being she could only ever present herself as in silence.
He walked to his car, parked three blocks away, in gleeful silence. He would not be caught, of that much he was certain. But he would forever remember the coldest night on which he killed the coldest woman.