Bouquet of Three Black Roses

BANG BANG we all fall down

BANG! His drunken form swallowed the bedroom. She slunk deep into nest of pillows and duvet. Nightly ritual began. She recoiled at each approaching footstep. He stealthily reached for the gun. He enjoyed her screams and pleas as he pulled trigger. Volley of blanks broke the midnight air.
 
BANG! Nerves frayed, baby crying, she ate another Valium breakfast. In a cloudy haze she decided. She would swap the blanks for real bullets.
 
BANG! Sat at the bar, complaining bitterly that the beer was too warm, his mind cranked through devious levers. ‘Oh yes,’ he roared deep inside. ‘Tonight I will pretend to shoot the baby.’

It’s Good To (S)talk

I was stalking before it became fashionable; an angelic school boy with the devil on my back and binoculars in my satchel. They say you never forget your first victim. Well, Dear Reader, I married her.
Haunted for years by the mask at the window. Holes punctured in her body, where no holes should be. Heroin became a heroine. She found peace and love in me. Five years wed and a child on the way.
I slowly trudge up the stairs with a cup of calming tea. She feels delicate and sick today. And you know, it’s surprising how well the balaclava still fits after all these years.

i’m not quite sure i know what you did last summer

In the boathouse, amidst a pile of oars, they discovered handcuffs, leather ties and a broken dildo.

Miss Gwendoline Riley had moved into the Lodge overlooking the lake, after retiring from her role as Headmistress only three years ago.  A pale and dour Botticelli face. She had been a stern, but most agreeable pedagogue. Miss Riley had excelled on overseas trips with excitable and curious pupils. Her stage was the cultural landscape she voiced.  

In the boathouse, amidst a pile of oars, they also discovered a schoolgirl’s diaries, Pauline Réage’s Story of O and the dismembered tongue of Miss Gwendoline Riley.