The work of a madman

Her eyes were wide with fear

Her wrists were strung from the ceiling

Blood poured down her body

Scabs, barely healed were now broken

Her mouth was hanging open

Her tongue cut out

Her legs had been snapped 

And her arms, grated with an everyday-cheese-grater

There was a table to the side

Filled with an array of odd objects

Knifes
Forks

Candles

Needles

A whip

Boiling water

A cup of acid

And string

The room was dark

Lit up only by the flickering light bulb in the wall

There appeared to be no door

Or windows

But there was a hidden exit

In the wall

Lemon juice had been poured onto her wounds

Making them flare up

The girl, for she had only reached half way through her teens

Had dried blood in her hair

And the prettiest of eyes

Who would do such a thing?
This was the work of a madman!


Me.