Murderous Lyrics Novels & Stories

THIRD PERSON POINT OF VIEW "The unfortunate. I think I know what it means, the unfortunate are those who have the power to dream. That means the music didn’t kill me because it can’t and that’s the same reason why it didn’t kill her, the music only complied her to kill herself because it only has the power to torture her” she said as she wiped her tears "It does really matter now, even if the music can’t kill me, I won’t be able to leave the rest of my life in this house with the memories of my friend's death" she whimpered

she asked. "You don't give a fuck about what I want, your getting a paycheck anyway." I said, rolling my eyes. I knew what she wanted me to say, it was what they all wanted me to say. Indirectly at least. That I was a loose canon ready to explode. A sadistic, psychotic bitch with no feelings of remorse. A cold-blooded killer... Mrs Jones frowned, adjusting her glasses, "you're right, I'm getting paid for this. I have no problem failing you immediately because you're a murderer, a mons-"

Jean Luc could not wrap his mind around it, but maybe that was what the murderer wanted. With quickening breaths, he turned into the gaming room. His craving to resume playing the Human Apocalypse game flew out of the window. He knew the light blue inked pen that the murderer used to write the letter. Perhaps, it had RD's fingerprint somehow. He didn't know. His mind was in such a frenzy of worry that he could barely think straight.

I curled my lip. "Ms. Muller, don't be so quick to mock me. I was indeed kidnapped for a night, but at that time, I also saw a woman who looked like a dog in the criminal's room. Oh, come to think of it, she looked just like you, Ms. Muller." Rosalind shot up from her seat, her lips trembling. "What are you talking about? I don't know anything about that. You have no proof. Don't you dare spread lies about me."

My heart dropped to my toes at his words. "What? Why not?" I exclaimed, tucking my hands into tight fists on my thighs. “I have more information on this Darick 'The Bloodthirsty' guy. Did you know his count of dead bodies is in the hundreds, and every person that speaks about him ends up missing?"

After the police had captured his fellow members, he had already predicted that the same thing would happen to him. The policemen were surrounding them. However, Scar was still eating nonchalantly. After he ate, he even took out a handkerchief to clean his mouth slowly. “Listen to me, I only want to see Brandon! “My wife and son died because of him. Now that I’ve killed his wife, it’s only an eye for an eye.” After he said that, he pulled up the video again. In the video, it was my plight after the kidnapping. I was cowering in the corner of the cage. I was extremely shaken, so much so that I screamed when I heard footsteps.

Each word was a chip of ice, sharp enough to draw blood. Zhedya’s eyes, usually so cool and controlled, were pools of pure, unhinged murder. The monster was out, and he was starving. Miller choked, his hands scrabbling at the iron grip on his windpipe. “Get off!” he rasped. “If you want him to live, you’ll listen! He’s not with me, you idiot! Soren has him! He’s going to kill him!” He shoved weakly at the unmovable arm. “God, I fucking hate you! I hate what you are! And I hate that he’s suffering right now because he still… he still chooses you!”

“Psychopath.” “Take one to know one.” We rose together, guns blazing, the world burning at our feet.

Fear stilled down my spine when his gaze darkened, filled with nothing but murderous intent toward me. “Go on, kill me. We all know daddy dearest doesn’t love you. And now what would he think if you become a murderer?” I whispered through clenched teeth and raspy half drawn breath, looking him dead in the eye. The heavy glob of spit trickling down his face to the floor. He increased the pressure on my neck, drawing me closer to death’s doorstep. And in that moment, in that slight tiny fracture of a second, I moaned. I fucking moaned. Full on, sultry, like one of those weird p**n videos.

My mother, Samantha, believed I was born a liar. Because she was deceived by my father's sweet words in her youth and abandoned after giving birth to me and my sister, Mia, she harbored a deep, bitter hatred for lies. She begged a witch for two magic rings. The rule was simple: if the wearer lied, the ring would glow red and burn them with magic. Mia's ring never hurt her, even when she broke a vase and blamed it on me. But if I simply said, "I'm thirsty," my ring would sear my flesh until I screamed. At first, I tried to defend myself, but Mom would just say, "The ring doesn't lie. Only through repeated punishment can your wicked soul be cleansed." After thousands of burns, even I started t