Tick tock.

He would murmur that into her ear every time he saw her.

Tick tock goes the clock.

He would laugh, smile and seem really genuine in front of everyone. No one would have expected him. No one wanted to believe what they saw that day on the news.

Of course they never noticed. They never did. And if it were to happen again? They still wouldn't notice, at least not until it was too late.

She noticed. Of course she noticed. How could she not? She was the target. The prey.

A silent game of cat and mouse. She would run. He would hunt. She turned left. He'd already be there, smiling innocently.

In the halls at school, he would bump into her, skilfully placing a note in her hand. It would be death threat. It was always a death threat.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The notes would often contain these three words. Alliteration, repetition used to create a dramatic effect, a sense of danger within the reader.

It did its job perfectly. She was terrified.

Drip. Drip. Drip goes your blood.

He would often do something weird, something that couldn't be pinned on him. It always caused her to bleed. It caused her to bleed in a slow, metrical rhythm. Drip. Drip. Drip went her blood.

Gym. That scared her. He was in her class. The memory of the doge ball incident was still fresh in her mind, of course, he reinforced that memory; the memory of the ball flying towards her at a speed she didn't think was possible.

BAM.

The ball had collided with her ribs.

Blood. Screams. In her weakened, dazed mind that was all she registered. The blood that was slowly dribbling its way out of her mouth. Drip. Drip. Drip went her blood. The terrified screams of her classmates, the teacher yelling for a pupil to call 911 or at least get the first aider. She could hear him. She could hear him apologizing profusely, saying it was an accident. He didn't mean to. Of course he didn't.

Later the teacher told the officers that it was an accident. She had a history of getting bones broken easily. No one knew all those broken bones were caused by him. He got off. He got off again.

Five ribs were broken. In a single shot, he broke five ribs, three on the left and two on the right.

Jags. He drugged her that day. It was the last day the he made her blood drip in the ever so perfect slow rhythm. That terrifying, slow rhythm. That rhythm where you can feel time slowing down as you watch the remains of your blood slowly dripping out of your body at different places.

Drip. Drip. Drip goes your blood.

Tick Tock goes the clock.

Forest: abandoned, forgotten. The perfect place. The perfect place to murder a girl. She would have never been found without him standing up on the stage announcing he had found the missing girl.

There was a projector. He had taken pictures. Pictures of her. Pictures of her screaming and withering in pain. Pictures of her where she was begging for mercy, begging for him to kill her. He showed all of them.

Every form of torture, he preformed it on her and took a photo. Rape. Maiming. Stabbing. Slicing. Stretching. Starving.

Each picture was more horrific than the last. The school was horrified, in tears. They thought that it could not get worse. Oh how wrong they were. It got worse. It got so much worse.

He had a video. Of course he would have a video, why wouldn't he?

Death. That was what she was begging for in the video. Her bones were prominent against the thin, pale skin. Her hair a mess, she was covered in dirt and blood. But it was her eyes. It was her eyes that scared them the most. The eyes of someone who had given up all hope of being found, given up hope of surviving. Eyes of someone who had no sign of life in them. It was horrifying.

He said he found them on the internet. He said he was too late to save the girl. He said that he was in love with her; he was going to ask her out that same day. A brilliant cover, don't you think? Play the heart broken school boy, who stumbled across photo's of the one he loved on the internet.

Only it was a month later did the news report that it was in fact he who killed the girl. He was the one who tortured the girl. He was the one who shredded her human rights into nothingness. He was the inhumane bastard who had hurt this girl.

No one had noticed, yet the signs were all there. The terrified looks she got when he was around. The notes that would fall harmlessly from her hand as she walked away from everyone, only to be found later and interpreted as a joke. All those bones that mysteriously got broken whenever she was around him. The signs were all there. They just chose to ignore it. Because of them, she died unnecessarily.

In the end it didn't matter. She died. He died. They both were murdered. Only difference? He was murdered in a more humane way. It was an outrage. It was an insult to her memory.

At her funeral, people were confused. They were confused as to why she had a shroud. It was beautiful of course. As if it had been made by the goddess of weaving herself.

It was.

The goddess wove a shroud for her dead daughter, her beautiful dead daughter, the one who was going to be the world's best architect. Instead, she was slaughtered like a pig.

This incident only gave the Athena cabin one more reason to hate Posideon. One more reason to hate his offspring. One more reason to point blank refuse to help any child of his. One more reason to hate.

Tick tock goes your life. Drip drop goes your blood. You're mine now.