This is something that I done for an excercise in English. I've already posted it in the writing thread but i'll post it again anyway. It sucks compared to most of the other stuff on here but I just want to see what people think.
The Blood Countess
I hear her scream,
As she begs for help.
But I have no intention of letting her go,
Right now she is mine, and mine alone.
I do not like this one,
She is loud and will not shut up.
When the servants had brought her to me,
She had resisted violently.
They had to drug and subdue her,
And I did not like that.
I preferred them to be more aware,
To see the fear in their eyes.
Luckily, though, she is strong,
And the drug has not yet taken full effect.
I laugh at her pitiful attempts at reason,
Telling me that she will tell no one.
Little does she know,
That there is only one thing I want from her.
And I will have it,
I need it.
As she continues to scream,
I ponder how to finish her.
I liked to make it slow,
To watch them suffer.
But the screams they make,
They give me a headache.
I could gag her. No.
She would choke to death.
Choke on her own vomit,
Before I could deliver the final blow.
I finger the knife. Yes.
It has never failed before.
The blade is sharp,
The inside lined with razor-sharp serrations.
As I turn around, I see her,
Lying battered and bloodied.
She lies on the hard, cold stone,
The wire binding her hands, cutting into her wrists.
When she sees the knife, clean and sharp,
Her pleas turn to insults,
She calls me disgusting things.
How dare this peasant talk to me in such ways,
Yes, she deserves to die.
As I approach her, she begins to struggle,
Causing her ties to tighten and spill her precious blood.
As I get close to her, I see the hatred in her eyes,
The frustration of knowing there is no escape.
I hold the knife in the dim torchlight,
Causing orange reflections to glint in the blade.
I see the fear begin to take her over,
As her young heart begins to hammer frantically against her ribcage.
I run the blade over her soft, pale skin,
And tears form in her eyes.
Her screams are now strained,
Her throat sore, choked with terror.
A smile spreads across my face,
At her futile babbling.
She will smile as well,
When I cut her pretty, little head ear to ear.
I move closer, towards her throat,
The bloodlust rising inside of me.
Her choked screams turn to mere whimpers,
And I begin to cut.
Now, as I bathe,
I think to myself,
How I will be forever young.
As when I bathe in the blood,
Of the virgin girls,
I, Elizabeth Bathory,
I, The Hungarian Blood Countess,
Am immortal.
