Another Wasted Sunday

It was a majestic night. One which was not tainted by the buzz of insects, the drone of late-night television, or the idle chatter of children. Instead, it was left to wallow silently in its own brilliance.
It had rained that day, and the puddles that were all about were glowing with the light of the full moon, as if they were the eyes of a newborn kitten caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

Celeste Jacobs was, on this very night, out for a midnight walk due to her recent inability to gain meaningful sleep. The bush track she was walking down was a personal favourite of hers, and she knew every twist, every sudden fall, every crevace of it as though it were an extension of her own body.
Celeste was looking greatly appealing on this mild night. Her saucer shaped eyes were surrounded by the sort of smooth skin that is reminiscint of a ripe peach. If her skin was a peach, then her mouth was made up of two succulent strawberries, arranged so as convey a feeling of thoughtful yet harmless expression. Framing her face was a mass of golden curls, that simultaneously brought to mind images of 50’s movie divas, and also freshly made fairy floss.
Tonight, this beautful head was filled with the warm, innocent memories of younger years. Celeste’s minds eye was flashing from one image to another. Firstly, she was flying a kite with her friend Kate, then she was indulging in a piece of cake whilst surrounded by friends and family at a birthday party.

All of a sudden, Celeste was dragged from these pleasant thoughts by the wretched, yet inimitable sound of a panting beast. The sound was eerily familiar to the noises which had used to accompany the aftermath of an amicable backyard swimming race in the family pool. This similiarity sent Celeste spiralling off amongst another crop of happy memories. After several minutes she was rudely wrenched from these reminiscences by a dischevelled old man who was poking at her back with a kitchen knife. On closer inspection, the man turned out to be Gloomy Jim, an unhappy nomad who had recently moved into the unoccupied cake store behind Celestes’ Spanish style villa. Many townsfolk had ironically remarked that Gloomy Jim was hanging around like a bad smell. (A comment which was especially witty because as well as being an unwelcome presense, Jim had obviously not bathed for quite some time).

Now, with every movement of the knife into her body, Celeste was uttering a low moan, not dissimiliar to the one a hungry pet makes when it has just been presented with a tasty offcut of beef, courtesy of the local butcher.
Gloomy Jim was revelling in the chaos. His knife-weilding antics were the most fun he had enjoyed in a good while. He remarked to himself that if Celeste truly was a peach, as the texture of her skin suggested, then he was whipping up one hell of a fruit salad.
(Jim allowed himself a quick chuckle at the subtle irony of this statement, then plunged his kitchen knife deep into the girl's pancreas.)
After a good ten minutes of similar behaviour, Jim reasoned that there was nothing more that could be done with the knife. He placed it down, and set to work with his hands.

He tore the young lady apart as if he were a young child greedily attacking a carefully wrapped present from Santa at Christmas. After a while, all that remained of young Celeste were thousands of postage stamp sized pieces of flesh, that resembled the confetti commonly thrown with love and abandon at a wedding party.
Afterwards, (as often happens when evil people have committed some sort of atrocity or murderous act) Gloomy Jim was struck down with a sudden twinge of guilt. His mind, which had previously been as clear as the night sky he was under, was now rapidly filling with clouds of self-doubt.
Perhaps, he pondered, that young girl had more to offer the world than the frantic minutes of satisfaction I gained from rendering her lifeless on that bush track tonight.

Ah well, Gloomy Jim thought to himself as he scrubbed at the rose coloured stains on his forearms, At least she won’t ever again have to endure that sinking feeling one gets as the sun sets on another wasted Sunday.