Prompt: Write for 10 minutes about the phrase "death in a bathroom."

This is a writing prompt that I ran with.   


  It was a stark contrast: the bright, oozing red against the whiteness of hit all. I had seen scenes like this in the movies. I was a voyeur to those. Kept back at a distance, seeing and wondering and safe.

     But this was entirely new. I knew the person. Intimately. No, I know what you are thinking, but it wasn't like that. Not really. Sure, I wanted it. But there was something about her that made me hesitate. Perhaps it was the coldness of her gaze as she watched people fall into her web. None of the others made me feel this way.

      Perhaps that is why this felt cathartic.

     The brightness of the blood reminds me of her lipstick. The one that she always wore. She called it seduction in a tube, and would make any man do whatever she wanted him to do. 

     It didn't work on me. But oh how I wanted it to. To see her curl those lips of bloody crimson up at me. To have that mocking glance and smirk shoved in my direction. I wanted it so bad. But no. I kept my cool. Kept my distance. It would be by my design. Not hers. Never hers.

     Drip, drip, drip. I smile at the scene before me. Classic in ever sense. Her eyes, unfocused, unseeing, stare into the dark abyss, or so I hope. 

     She looks so relaxed, laying as she is in the claw footed bathtub, still dressed in her bathrobe. I needed to give her some modesty. I don't want those coppers to see what was supposed to be for my eyes only.

     I run my hand through her hair, just one more time. The ebony locks will no longer haunt my dreams. The succubus is no longer draining me, taking my everything. 

     Drip, drip, drip. I smile at the sound of her blood striking against the white tiled floor, splashing like a tear from her vein. My work is done for now. Until the next one comes around.