People chatter around me. Conversations about schoolwork and gossip. Light streams through the thin windows, half covered by dower gray-brown curtains, draped over railing, just above the thin panes. The happy chattering suddenly succumbs to a dark, murky aura. Setting an uneasy feeling over the class that no one else seems to recognise. Conversations continue as they were, drifting in and out of topics. Blissfully unaware of the veil of mist that grows heavier and heavier. Heads and hands reach out for the students, clawing at their backs, their hair, their eyes. Skeltonian hands mingle the blood of their victims with their decaying bodies. flesh gathering beneath the nails. The conversations continue. Ignoring the dark figures tearing at each of their eyes. Leaving sunken sockets, similar to the figures.  

The figures reach into the pockets of their shabby, nonexistent dresses. They each pull out a roll of cotton and a needle. Threading the light pink cotton through the eye of the needle. The steel connects with the skin, heavy and sunken. Desperately clinging to the bone of their skulls. The pink thread circles around the flesh, pinching it together. Blood glues to the lids as the skin is pierced. Painting the cotton a deep red. Over there. That corner. That figure goes by the name of Jefforey. Jefforey is currently moving on from the eye sockets. Leaving the thread hanging loose as blood trails down their face and drips onto the floor. Staining the hideous green carpet. Sloppy work. But Jeffory has moved to the throat. Drawing out a knife, dirtied with the blood of others. Stains from weeks, months ago. Ugh Jeffory, if you're not going to follow the instructions and gouge out the eyes before sowing their faces into a permanent grin of cotton and blood, at least clean your knife. It's called basic hygiene. Don’t give me that attitude. No, take back that eye roll right now! Jeffory turns back to his victim. Fine ignore me, ugh teenagers these days. Anyway, Jeffory is bringing the blade to the victim's throat. Gliding it across the soft, pale skin. Painting a deep crimson smile all the way across what once was the throat. Blood oozes down the neck and shoulders, tricking into a pool on the floor. The victim continues with the conversation. sputtering blood everywhere as they talk. The wind pipe and various tubes that are stored behind flesh (there are more than you'd think) dangle down, not allowing them to make any sound, only strained gurgles as muscle spills from the open slate in the throat. Falling in clumps to the desk as they attempt to get a last word in. The other students clean faces turning into ones of bloody horror.