Once a watched my hand and fingers. Small hand, natural long nails, ring from my grandma and mum (family legacy).
"It draws," I said to myself and moved with my hand. Yes. Draws, writes, give me food. How can I push whith this someone?! With so small hand.
It's scary. I have scary hands. Thin fingers, dry and hackly. My hands are often cold. That's why I feel corpsy in many times.
What my hands can do? Kill someone? No! Not again. I'm not a murder.
But I can paint portraits of my victims. Pale, somewhere blue skin, creepy red eyes - deadly eyes, long brown hair.
Yes, my dear hands, we're murders anymore. Even if there's no real blood and bodies. Prefering Madder Lake Deep gouache more than blood.
I am murder.
Who never killed anyone.
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