He didn't notice when I started painting my nails again. I hadn't cared about such things in so long, but I was making an effort again. I picked deep, wet reds. That was my way of trying to seduce him, hoping he'd notice my boldness and find me appealing again. I'd never tried this hard before, I hadn't had to. I ran the glistening tips of my red nails through my hair, trying my best to look sexy, but he didn't notice. He never noticed. Until I made him.
Seeing him tied to that chair, so helpless, almost made me reconsider. His green eyes were moist and pleading. But in them I saw the thousand tiny deaths of our love and the way he never even tried to save it. The kitchen knife was warm in my hand as I cut into him, slowly. His screams were lovely to my aching soul. I bled him dry. I've decided I don't need his worthless attention. I don't need any man. I need the perfect, bloody red.
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