May think about turning it into an actual story; not sure yet. Matters on my boredom and the feedback I get. Enjoy. Read and review, if you please.
"No, no. No guns. Too…easy," she purred. "Yes, guns are so base, so expected. And we don't want to be predictable, now do we?" She cooed, grabbing the man's face and squishing his cheeks together, talking to him as if he we a baby. She grinned evilly as the man rapidly shook his head.
"You know," she started again, leisurely walking around the chair the man was bound to, the large Flamberge in her hand dragging behind her, making an awful scraping sound against the concrete. "Most would say that you deserve mercy, seeing as you were drunk when you decided to rape your daughter-"
"Please!" The man finally spoke up, crying out and struggling against his bonds for a brief moment before sagging in defeat. "Please," he whimpered. "She- she just looks so much like her mother, and- and I-"
"You what?" The man did nothing but whimper, then began whispering prayers under his breath. "Oh please," she sneered, kicking his chair. "Praying? You think your precious God is here? Standing beside you, ready to take you to heaven?" Stopping behind him, she grabbed a chunk full of his blood matted hair in her hand and yanked his head back, arousing a scream from him. "Do you think even if God were real - and I cannot be sure myself that he is not - but, if he was…" she leaned closer and whispered in his ear, her tone seductive, but her words hateful, "Do you really think he would take an incestual," she yanked his hair again, "fucked up," another yank, "child-raping," another scream this time, and hair came loose, "drunk?" She tore her hair filled hand away, relishing in the howl of pain the man let out.
"You said," she started circling him again, calmed down after her little bout of rage, "that she - Jade, your daughter - looked just like her mother. Well, now, I only see one problem with that." The click of her heels seemed thunderous in the suddenly quiet room. She walked over to the small metal desk in the corner, in the small, dark room they were in. Really, it looked like a scene off of a "Bad-cop, Good-cop" scene, or maybe a Mafia movie. Only a single light was in the room: a flickering light bulb that was held up by a barley there string, hanging from a ceiling that was impossible to see.
She tossed the Flamberge onto the table, not seeing the man's jump, but she did hear his squeak of fear. Her silver nails ticked on the metal as she pushed herself up to sit on the cold desk, scraping against the hard material as she picked up a manila folder. The man tried to ignore the metal shavings following her unnaturally sharp nails.
"See, here," she pointed to the file as if he could see it, "it says that your favorite feature of your wife's is - was - her eyes. This, of course, we got from the interview you took on the street the night of your car crash a month ago - the night your wife died." She paused, and put the folder down on her lap, it tipping and almost falling because of her long, dark stocking clad legs. She wasn't dressed for the occasion, in a black pencil skirt and a silk, button-up, cream shirt; she looked like she was on her way to a business meeting.
"Now, the problem with that is your wife's eyes are green," she paused, glancing down at the folder and flipping a page, her head tilting in what would have been a cute gesture if it weren't for the circumstance. "Eh, blue/green - and your daughter's eyes are brown. She inherited that from you - by the way, you have really nice eyes." She smiled softly, her whispered compliment receiving a shaky "thank you."
"Why would you - no, how would you pretend your daughter is your wife - while drunk, of course - if their eyes are completely different colors? The report says you raped her on her back, and Jade, when telling of her encounter with you, said you forced her to look at you. She never said anything about contacts, so there wasn't that, but I will not deny you were thinking of your wife; Jade said that you called out 'Maria' while climaxing."
"That- that's my wife's name," he said, then flinched, as if afraid of being punished fro talking out of turn.
"Yes, it is. Jade, Maria and Thomas Alfredo." She paused, scrunching up her brow. "Speaking of Alfredo, I need to decided what to make for dinner tonight. Anyway," she shook her head, her tight, black coiled hair flying, "I think I finally decided my punishment for you." Wrapping her hand around the Flamberge, she hoisted it up and walked over to the man, previously mentioned as Thomas.
The sword was beautiful, catching the little light in the room and reflecting it, the jewels in the handle doing the same. "Isn't in gorgeous?" She breathed in awe, turning it this way and that. "Its from Rome, and it looks like it, too, doesn't it?" The dreamy look on her face disappeared as she suddenly pointed the sword to Thomas' throat, causing him to cry out.
Desperate, Thomas cried out, "Y-y-you can't!" At her raised brow, he continued. "Murder is illegal in America!"
A scoff escaped before she could stop it. "I wasn't born in America, and since I know that doesn't excuse me…" She gave a wicked grin. "Why do you think we're in the middle of the ocean?" Stalking over to one of the walls, which were all metal, she slid open a previously missed window. Blue reflected back, flooding the room with glowing light, and hurting the man's eyes. Something darted past the window, and that's when he realized that, Oh, my God, the weren't on the ocean, they were actually in it like she had said. They were underwater. And what had just swam past?
He voiced his thoughts. "Oh, that?" She replied. "It was a shark, of course." Not noticing, or not caring, that Thomas started to hyperventilate, she continued. "Ya know, most people think that the Great White is the most aggressive? Well, its not." Still standing at the porthole, her head snapped to the side as another fish darted past, following it with her gaze. "The Bull shark is. And those sharks out there? I see some Tiger sharks, which are the third most aggressive…" His sigh of relief was short lived, "but there are some Bulls as well."
Suddenly, the water was mixed with red. At Thomas' confused but still panicked look, the girl said, "George is chumming the waters. After all," she grinned as she slammed the metal cover back over the porthole, and turned on her heal, "we need to hurry. I have school in the morning, and waiting for the sharks to show up is a little while of a wait. Now, where were we? Oh right." She picked the Flamberge back up and pointed at his throat again.
On to another tactic, Thomas started begging. "Please! Please! I'm begging you, don't do this! Don-don-" he broke down into sobs that suddenly became a gurgle. The first several inches of the steel blade had been forced into the hollow of his throat, blood spurting out and hitting her in the face. His wide brown eyes looked at her, still pleading.
A psychotic grin took a hold of her features, a chuckle rumbled through her chest. "I don't take requests." And with that, her wrist gave a sharp twist and there was a crack and everything went black for him.
Moments later, she was on the deck, holding Thomas bridal style, ("How endearing," George had said,) and her now bare toes wiggled over the edge on the boat. Splashes from the sharks' fins would disrupt the calm surface, and draw her eye to a new place. Relaxing her arms let the dead body drop into the water, causing the biggest splash of them all, and the carnivorous fish were drawn to the scent of a fresh kill, ripping into him wildly.
As red began to swirl with the light blue of the ocean, the girl gave one last glance at a piece of floating cloth before turning away and walking back under deck to clean up the mess she made.