Roses are... (extracted from Chinese Defects)

Using most of the energy he had left, he thrust his weapon forward diagonally. It was finished. That was the final blow. He stood back to admire his artwork- the bloody mess splattered beautifully across the walls which were once pearly white. He dropped the blood-stained axe next to the chopped up, disfigured organism. Smiling proudly to himself, he headed off to the bathroom to clean up. The streaming water from the pipe soon filled the bathtub as he gently lowered himself in. Exhaling a relaxed sigh, he leaned back and let the morning occurrence play through in his mind.

She was about a hundred feet in front of him. Laughing cheerily, she continued talking on her cellphone, completely unaware of what was coming for her. Judging on what she was saying, she was on her way home to celebrate Valentine's Day with Henry, whom he supposes is her lover. Henry had everything planned out for them- specially prepared Valentine's dinner followed by a romantic evening of togetherness. A bouquet of red roses, red heart chocolates and other delights awaited her. With an "I love you, too.", she hung up. And that was when he decided to strike. Chasing after the victim this time had been slightly tricky; she had decided to go through the woods to escape her perpetrator. Nevertheless, the poor working lady had her heels on, and it wasn't long enough 'till he caught up with her. As like all his other victims, she put up a struggle before the last bit of breath escaped her. From then on it was easy.

He dragged her body and placed her comfortably in the boot of his car. His home wasn't far, just a couple of blocks down the road. Soon, it would be time to begin his masterpiece. He carried her body cautiously into his home, and placed her strategically against the white wall. He brought out his axe, recently sharpened, from the basement. Gripping the axe tightly with both of his hands, he swung his arms back and began. Slowly but surely, her insides began to splatter into a work of art.

He smiled at himself, thinking of what he had done. The working lady is his eighth piece of artwork, not the very best, but certainly not the worst. Her blood was his art, and her death was a mere small sacrifice to produce such an extravagant wonder. His house was now a museum, each room a canvas for his work. The past seven souls have gone on to a better place, and he felt that he had made their death worth it.

Slowly, his mind began to devise another plan. The next room to paint white, the next victim to strike. He wondered what Henry did that night.