The girl studied his body for longer than needed. It was such a beautiful body, in beautiful pose, and a beautiful piece of artwork. All because of her. She had done that. She was proud. The girl probably needed to go.
He was dead, you see. The young female smiled, and shivered. The thrill of killing him was fresh as bread in her mind, bold and confident. She studied, and stared at the bloodied walls, words smeared in liquidy red. "Death is the prettiest thing." She quoted, her tongue getting used to the roll and flow of the words in her mouth. She liked it. Made her feel special. So did the big kitchen knife that was currently haunting her right hand.
Flashing blue and red light swarmed the room like parasites. Her eyes drew to the windows. The dark, silent night was cracked with ear piercing sirens. She whimpered, rocking on her heels, hands cupping her dirty cheeks.
A hand on on her knobbly spine made her whimper louder, more frightened. The knife cluttered onto the floor as arms folded comfortingly around her waist, lifting her onto her unresponsive feet. The mysterious stranger grunted in annoyance, as he was forced to carry the now limp, unconscious form in his arms.
Running out the back door, the boy glanced one furtive glance at the dying sirens, and wondered if he would ever be accepted by the homeless girl in his arms, nicknamed 'Psycho-Maniac.'