случайный глюк системы
Fuck your obsession, I don't need that shit
завтра, точнее уже сегодня, индивидуалка по английскому. потрясающий бульварный ничего не стоящий детективчик. ничего, если бы не... маньяяяк! он такой восхитительный, такой замечательный, такой *слюнислюнислюни*. вот. это так, лирическое отступление. по правилам на индивидуалку нужно выписать определенное кол-во выражений. а потом составить с ними свою историю. вот, собсно, история. как говорится, Остапа понесло.

A big cloud was creeping by the sun. The city lay, yearning for the rain. Betty was in a talk up to her eyeballs. She always liked to turn heads, so that even her war-paint proved it. She liked as well the games tongue-in-cheek, when nothing could hurt her, there was nothing serious on a stake, but she could let a new prey get his heart reamed out. Yes, she liked it. But at that very time she had no pleasure of the chat, she was just shooting the breeze, trying to bullshit herself, to buy a little time before she’d throw temper tantrum. She just wanted to dance away of the necessity to identify the body. Her sister’s body.

Betty was pissed off, awaked in the midnight. There was some rough-and-tumble noise at the landing. For a minute or so the girl was pacing back and forth, trying to trace a source of it. At last she approached to the door. All of a sudden something made trip the alarm bells. Straining against an unexpected fear, she stood stock-still, then, after a three-beat pause opened the door.
- What the h… - her lips froze in mid-utterance.
A red pool colored the white-marble floor. Strands of platinum hair, spoilt, in mess covered a lifeless face. Such a familiar face.
- Hello, Betty… - that whisper with some subliminal hum of excitement made her raise her eyes.
Someone, the face hidden in a wide black hood, a knife in his hand, was staring at her, and she felt, he was smiling, though she couldn’t see it. The improbability of this situation, something in the voice of this person, in his presence paralyzed Betty as if she had been hypnotized. She just looked at him, her eyes widely open, feeling she was going to faint, looked at him slipping away with serpentine elegance. And then fell in the sweet and soft darkness of syncope.

Someone had called the police, the ambulance. After a rapidfire report a cop, the lead on this case, asked the neighbor, who had found the women, sisters, according to his words. One of them was alive though unconscious. She came to herself soon. So now Betty had to identify the body.
A morgue attendant, fierce-looking as if he had been operating on sleep deficit, appeared. Nervous, trembling, Betty followed him. They stopped near a table with a female body on it covered with white tissue. Awfully businesslike the morgue attendant took away the tissue and stepped back. Betty hesitated to look at the face before her. At last her gaze slipped at the pale skin, the gaping hole in the chest, so-called coup de grace, the shoulders that seemed hard angles, the face… the eyes were closed, lips without any lipstick were grey and dry, all the features sharpened. And still it was she. It was her Lizzy, her sister.
The morgue attendant was waiting for any reaction. Betty nodded weakly and he went out to announce the result. She stood near her dead sister and could hardly keep calm enough not to burst into tears. Then a recollection occurred to her mind. She remembered everything that made her crazy. Remembered this little angel who seemed to live a monk’s existence. Indeed constantly beating her boyfriends off as if they had been a kind of treasured amenity. Remembered all her taunts that she took as a personal affront but could never muster the necessary outrage to fight back. So many times she desired her disappearance, so many times she thought she was ready to kill her…
- So, you had managed, hadn’t you? Betty, my beloved sister, - muddy eyes stared at her, the lips curved in a sneer. – You had managed, - repeated she whispering. – you had done it!
Betty suddenly saw again the night, the person in the wide black hood. The hand slipped slowly and took off the hood, so as she saw the face of the murderer. Her own face.
White feet touched the floor. The sneer became a load laughter. The roar of it hit Betty’s ears, hurt. Still with the roar of it she opened her eyes in her bad. A sun ray made its way through a curtain. The noise in the kitchen said that Lizzy had already woken up and was preparing a breakfast.
Betty smiled and drawled:
- Good morning, Lizzy. You know… this time I forgive you. Only this one last time.

@музыка: осты к портрету малышки Козетты

@темы: долбанное твАрчество, бредоносная оса, бредомысленная хрень