May you walk through the raining pools of blood and dance on the guts of your victims.
The words floated to the top of her head. She had been given a job, a good job, a job she knew she could really do. A job she had been dreaming of since she could remember. Remember since when? Lucifer had explained her duties, and she planned on doing her very best. To show not only Lucifer, but his other head-honchos, that he had chosen well.
Raining pools of blood.
She shivered as his words caressed her spine, building the anticipation. She smiled as she thought of all the possibilities. She had opted to stay here in Hell. Oh, she could have done this on the top-side, but her life there had been full of dull, painful memories and feelings. All so close to the surface, but yet her mind could not grasp them. Her hand ran over the small scar on her forehead.
She entered the room and looked at all the frightened souls; her toys, her victims, her vices. She would do as she pleased with them. They were there to be tortured, to fulfill their heavy, dirty souls. Would the doctors who had touched her come soon? Would the guards who had held her down come too? She remembered some of them, but where had she been? Would Lucifer let her have them? She would have to ask.
Her tight black corset made her already snow white skin glow under the florescent lights. Her thick, long hair fell around her shoulders in a black cloak. She saw that her appearance made the souls quiver in fear. She could almost taste the heavy copper on her tongue, anticipating what would soon happen.
But what scared them was her eyes. Oh sure, she had a cute little nose and perfect, pink, pouty lips. It was the eyes. The doctors had talked about them; the eyes of a psychopath.
Her eyes seemed to scare everyone around her, including some of her new colleagues. They hid it, but she could sense their nervousness. Like her parents, until they had just stopped visiting her. The nurses felt it too, although they pitied her. What had she done to deserve what had happened to her? The thought made her stop briefly, head tilted, as she tried to remember something, a fleeting memory. Shaking her head, she thought of Lucifer; he did not fear her dark brown orbs when she looked at him with child-like curiosity.
There she had stood in front of the very man her parents had said would meet her with pain and torture. But he had accepted her with a hug and a job. There was no fright, nervousness, or pity in him. He knew what she wanted deep down, and the job had fit.
She walked along the wall holding her instruments. Her toys. They looked sharp, deadly, and damn fun. Her hand ran lightly over knives of all different shapes and sizes. Her favorites were the serrated blades. Their victims felt the bite. Again, that memory that was so close came back like a small nagging pain. She tried to grab at it, but it escaped through her hands like liquid, like blood.
She grabbed the cat o’ nine tails. Nine strong cords with her own twist at the ends. Small razor blades were added to the tips. Why torture them with whipping? She wanted to pass the foreplay and get straight to the blood.
She turned to her scared victims, her wrist already snapping the cat o’ nines, hitting their marks. The souls cried out and screamed for mercy. The blood flowed from the many small cuts. She moved and circled, humming a favorite childhood song, as her wrist snapped over and over. And the screams spiraled louder, echoing on themselves. They could not pass out, so they would stay awake for everything she threw at them.
She went to pick another torture device from the wall. Something bigger, something that would get the blood flying. Homemade devices she had no name for, but they worked. She turned to the red eyed, snotty, sniffling souls. Fear and pleading in their eyes. Her body heated with something close to lust. She released her new toy on them. The blood flew, coating her like new, velvety, wet skin. She licked her lips, rolling the thick copper taste on her tongue.
She sang and twisted. The blood ran, splattering the walls and coating the ground. But still the souls screamed; there was no escape for them. No unconsciousness for them. Her blood raged with glee, and that nagging thought finally came close enough to grasp. She stopped as the memories flooded her.
Her first kill. The feeling of life leaving the small animal, its lifeless eyes staring at at her. How it had made her feel. And then the evil, older boy who had tried to make her take off her dress, and when that didn’t work, he tried to rip it off of her body. How it had felt to shove the garden shears into his stomach. How his small whimpers of pain thrilled her as she straddled his body and used the blades to make the cut big enough to place her hands inside. How she had explored the inside of his warm body, the bloody tissue and organs slippery to the touch. She had discovered a worm-like thing and started to pull out the thick cord. Later she would discover it had been his intestines.
They had locked her up. She had been punished, she had been beaten, she had been shocked, and finally, she had been lobotomized. She had lived a horrible life of nothingness, stuck inside her head, while the world went on around her. She was nothing but a drooling, feeble body. She lost her will to live, and when her life light went out, she was glad for the darkness. Suddenly she awoke, and she had found herself now able to function, sitting in the reception room in Hell. The secretary, bitch she was, actually offered her a magazine to read. The man next to her, shocked, said the cold-hearted bitch offered him nothing, just an evil look.
That little memory had done nothing for her and nothing to change her feelings about the task at hand. Instead, it fueled a spark of love for the job and anticipation because her religious-go-happy parents would soon be there to enjoy the pain she would inflict. She would torture them until they confessed to their own evil. She would torture all who had done wrong to her. Maybe Lucifer could find the boy who had tried to rip her dress off. Maybe she could gut him again. Oh, yes, she would dance on the guts of her victims.