The Stabbing Needles

There is no greater pleasure in life than looking upon our betrayers and tyrants, as the light leaves thier eyes.

This gives me a great, welling euphoria that fills my black soul.
So I knit.

With every stich, I seal the fates of the blue flies and the miserable aristocrats.

The smell of the blood grows thicker, my needles weave and stab.

Everyday the list grows longer, and with every hour I smile at my work. But soon it fades. So many more names, yet it is never enough. The job is unending, so the blackness grows deeper and the red brighter.  

Everyday my hunger for flesh rumbles like thunder and the thirst for blood makes my throat burn.

I have become a black monster.

Each name on the list I spin goes with a face that has is my prey, and the madness within does not allow them to escape.