Cliché on a Halloween Night

This Hallow Eve, we met our players: David, Angela, and Spencer. But forgive me if we focus more on Angela, as both David and Spencer are dead, which would make a far more boring story. 

They hung from the second-tallest tree in the forest, just at the edge. Angela had spent hours finding the right tree; most of them were either too in the open or had Halloween ornaments hanging from them, garish neon things, most of them and the rest plastic crap. She had to pre-kill them; it would've been too difficult to restrain them herself and hang them naturally. She did prefer her work to be authentic, but some sacrifices had to be made, clearly.

She didn't know David or Spencer personally—far from it. She had seen them on the bus three Tuesdays earlier. They had distinct silhouettes, which was exactly what she was looking for. She killed them while they were out trick-or-treating. Her plan was to get them changed out of the costumes, but she realised it would fit her theme more if they were in their mummy and zombie costumes.

The overall theme for her photography was the needless sacrifice the world forces upon us. As part of this, she had to kill many people. It was gonna be her finest work.

She had to work quickly before the sun would rise. She had to place setting powder on their faces to make sure they didn't shine too much. She aged the rope by the light of her phone torch with coffee and tea to make it look not so artificial, give it a grim vibe if you will. The tea was cold, numbing her hands as she worked. By the end, she could barely feel them, but it was worth it.

It was 6:16. She heard a noise; this didn't frighten her. She was the one with the axe, after all.

The screams seemed to be never-ending. It was the screams she hated the most, but as an artist, she knew she had to run towards things that made her uncomfortable. Her main goal was to keep them away from her camera. It was very expensive, and she didn't want her shot to be ruined by a couple of teens getting wasted. She swung the axe forcefully—but the wrong way, she realised. That's when the screaming started. It must've been very painful, but they didn't understand what she was going through, too—she was hurting, too.

This was a unique feeling; Angela had never felt this way before. She began to sing:

He continued to scream, missing out on her quick wit.

The wrong side of her axe again—but on purpose this time—through the skull and hitting the ground with a satisfying thunk. So satisfying, in fact, she did it a couple more times.

“People say that I feel nothing! That I'm a psychopath. But far from it. I am an artist, and my work has provoked such feelings in them that they cry at mere pictures.”

It was a film camera; she always liked to keep it retro.

The sun rose at 7:01. It was the perfect shot, but all she did was roll her eyes. It bored her now, and her eyes stung. She accidentally got some blood on them.