Crossed wires

Mash stood frozen. 

David took another slow step forward, moonlight glinting off the blood on his jaw. 

*"Shari,"* he called softly. *"Come here, sweetheart. Enough acting."* 

Behind him, Mash felt Sharon's grip on his shirt tighten. 

She didn't move. 

Didn't speak. 

Just pressed herself against his back, like a terrified child. Her breaths were shallow. Her hands cold. 

Mash whispered, "Don't worry. I won't let them take you." 

Then... 

David's tone shifted. 

Sharper. 

Colder. 

*"Sharon Cross."* 

Mash stiffened. 

So did she. 

He looked between them. "Wait. What did he just—?" 

Then she moved. 

She slipped away from him—not crawling, not limping—but walking, perfectly steady. 

Her broken leg straightened as if it had never been broken at all. 

Mash's voice cracked. "Your leg—! You said—!" 

Sharon looked at him with something between pity and amusement. 

*"It's just a foot, dummy."* 

Mash staggered back. "What the hell is happening?" 

She ignored him, walking straight toward David. 

Stopped right in front of him, and with a bright smile, held out her hand. 

*"Uncle David,"* she chirped. 

Then turned. 

*"Uncle Vincent."* 

Vincent tipped his head and waved. 

*"Little Shari."* 

David ruffled her hair. 

*"Good job, Shari."* 

Vincent smiled. *"Very good job. Though we told you to wait. We were coming to pick you up from the airport."* 

She rolled her eyes, grumbling. "You were late. I got bored. And your security sucks, by the way. I just wanted to play a little." 

Vincent crossed his arms. *"Still—sneaking into the house? You know the rules."* 

Sharon looked up, eyes wide. *"I'm sorry. But it was just too tempting. The house. The blood. The poor, confused actor boy. I mean—everything's perfect. I love being here."* 

She giggled softly. 

*"And your leg?"* David said, amused. 

*"Necessary for the act."* 

Then she started to walk away. 

But David held up a hand. 

*"Wait a second."* 

She looked at him. 

He leaned down slightly, voice low and deliberate. 

*"If you're having so much fun playing... why not finish it?"* 

He held out his hand. 

In his palm—a small, black-handled folding knife. 

Sharon's eyes lit up. 

*"Really?"* she asked, grinning. 

David nodded. 

*"You've earned it."* 

Mash, still standing stunned a few feet away, whispered, "What the hell...?" 

Sharon took the knife. 

Turned it slowly in her hand. 

Looked at Mash. 

And for the first time, her smile reached her eyes. 

*"I said we'd escape together,"* she said sweetly. 

Then flicked the blade open. 

Mash stumbled back, breath hitching. "You're not..." 

Sharon stepped toward him, silent and smooth, the blade dancing between her fingers. Her eyes gleamed now—not with innocence, but with delight. 

Then—she lunged. 

Mash ran, crashing through the trees. Branches tore at his skin, roots snagged his feet. But behind him—no footsteps. No panting. Just the whisper of fabric and something far worse: 

Laughter. 

She wasn't chasing him like a normal person. 

But like a ghost. 

The first cut was quick—a clean slash across his calf. Mash screamed, fell. 

The air was sharp with the scent of blood and damp earth when Sharon suddenly stopped chasing him. 

Mash, panting as he clutched a tree trunk, turned to see... 

No one. 

Heavy silence. 

Then— 

*"Boo!"* 

A mocking whisper behind his ear. 

Before he could scream, she was on him like a feral cat. 

He felt his collarbone snap under the knife's handle. 

Mash doubled over, choking on pain, but she was already behind him, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back. 

*"Do you like happy endings, Mash?"* She giggled, then drove the knife into his thigh and twisted it slowly, like a key in a rusted lock. 

His scream tore through the forest's silence. 

*"Ah, don't scream like that!"* She wagged a finger in front of his pain-twisted face. *"The audience hates overacting!"* 

Then she pressed her fingers into the wound, digging through the torn muscle like she was searching for something. 

His tear rolled down her cheek. She licked it. 

"Salty."

She raised the knife again, this time slicing a thin horizontal line across his stomach.

His intestines spilled out from his body — she pulled them free and began to tie them together, wrapping them gently around his neck.

"I pressed my thumb into the wound to widen it. Broken bones make the most beautiful sounds."

The sound of his wrist snapping between her hands cracked like a breadstick.

He wanted to beg, but her fingers dug into his mouth, tearing the corners of his lips as she reached in to pull out his tongue.

"Shhh, don't ruin the finale!"

The blade shimmered under the moonlight.

Then —

The sound of slicing — she split his tongue down the middle, blood spurting like a warm fountain down her chin.

His eyes bled from crying so hard.

But Sharon wasn't done yet.

She grabbed his left ear and slowly tore it off.

"Look at you now… a work of art. But there's just one thing left."

She stabbed the knife into his right eye, carving a circle until the eyeball dangled from his cheek.

His body trembled like a slaughtered animal, but she grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her.

"The final scene has to be fun."

The blade gleamed.

It slid through his throat effortlessly, slicing the vocal cords first so his scream became nothing but bubbling gasps.

But before he took his last breath, she shoved her fingers into the wound, digging until she found an artery and yanked it out like a broken string of beads.

Mash's body collapsed to the ground — disfigured.

Then she stood.

The front of her dress soaked in red. Her hair clung to her face. Her eyes sparkled.

She looked down at him for a moment —

Mash Andrews, once the star of the stage.

A perfect ballet turn.

Graceful.

Grotesque.

🎵 "Ashes, ashes, Mash fell down,

Sliced him deep and watched him drown,

The play is over, the scene is through...

Now I dance, alone with you." 🎵

Blood followed

her steps like ribbons.

She danced.

And behind the trees, David and Vincent stood watching —

like proud parents at a recital.

"Come on, let's prepare dinner and a bed for her . She must be starving."

"You're right."