That was sloppy, Virgil. The work of a novice. No one will appreciate that display, no one will admire that amateurism. Dispose of it and don’t make the same mistake with the next one. He stared at his reflection in the water basin, its clarity corrupted by the crimson taint of blood. Ophelia’s blood. Its ripples had calmed, giving him clear view of his likeness, its red hue demonic. The symbolism was not lost on him. He returned to his cleansing, dipping calloused hands within the water. Try as he might, no amount of scrubbing would remove the residue from beneath his fingernails. It was no matter, it wouldn’t be much later in the night that he would once again be wiping fresh blood from his flesh. Thus far, the night's foray into the recesses of his darkest ambitions had been a resounding failure, if the mangled specimen behind him was any indication. He turned to face it, his brow furrowing and lips curling downward in …show more content…
They had sold their souls to society, taking their mantle with their true self abandoned, and to Virgil this was no life at all. In their moments of bliss, all else was naught. Their only focus was the heat growing in their bellies, the moisture coating their thighs, and the man who would provide them with such a sensation. In that moment, their souls would return to them. In that moment they would die, jubilant and beautiful. All people die, yet not all meet such a graceful end. Ophelia had not been blessed with such an end. When she regained her consciousness, she was bound and gagged upon the duvet in his basement, as some are wont to awaken to. There was panic in her eyes as she set her sight upon Virgil. Her eyes widened and her feminine frame began to tremble. He took her without a word, and she fought against him. At first. Before long, she had resigned to her fate, and had even begun to become an active participant. It was in these moments that Virgil knew he had