Young Writers Society

The Girl
He watches her sleep.
The moonlight, shining on her perfect skin.
The spread of dark hair over the pillow case.
The shadows her eyelashes cast over her face.
The part in her lips where the air flows out.
The rise and fall of her chest with each silent breath.
He watches the blade of the knife.
The light catching the sliver.
The way it bounces shadows over the dark room
The hilt, perfectly fitted to his hand.
The blade, sharp.
The point, deadly.
He takes the knife,
and connects the icy blade
with the rising chest.
The girl does not move,
does not stir.
The moonlight moves not.
The hair stays the same.
The shadows of her eyelashes cover her face.
The part in her lips no longer has air.
The moving chest is still.
And he watches the blade of the knife.
The now red color.
The no longer existant shadows on the dark room.
The hilt, still perfect.
The blade still sharp.
The point has killed.
He turns and leaves
the girl to her fate,
her beauty never to be seen again.