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Jack hadn’t thought about how much blood there would be.
He watched as it poured down from the deep gashes, over his victims body and down the wall, pooling over the white floor, channeled in between the grooves between the tiles.
He drooled at the sight, holding a bloody pair of scissors in his hands as he listened to the boy’s groans– his last shuddering breaths.
This kid may have rejected Toko, but now he belonged to Jack for the rest of time. Transformed into a work of bloody art– no one would mention his name again without his artist.
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Written for @febuwhump day 14 prompt: blood stained tiles.
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