Drip. Drip. Drip. The rhythmic sound reverberated in his eardrums, deafening all other noise around him. It overpowered the slowly diminishing thump, thump, thump, which had first piqued his interest. But now, that heartbeat, once strong and alluring, was nothing more than a dull, aching blot giving away to the hollow darkness. He dropped her, another dissatisfying thump, onto the floor below him, and stepped back. There was a moment of clarity, which washed away the proverbial red before his eyes, only to leave in its place much more redness. The clarity became a shock, but for the wrong reasons. Like when a person, pumped with adrenaline, at the scene of an accident notices odd details, irrelevant notions, but those pieces of the image stick with them, as an out of place reminder. Stefan’s realization was that the girl’s—the victim’s head was intact on the body. There was blood, and lots of it, but he had been far more gentle than he usually was in his throws of bloodlust. It was a disturbing notion—again for terribly wrong reasons. If he had been gentle, it meant he had been more in control. If he had been more in control, than he had chosen this… …show more content…
He would never willingly choose to indulge in this way. He wasn’t his brother—he could not be like his
which he had to live. This was clear on the surface, but his own brother could
was “viciously attacked” on the street, how “his eye socket was shattered and hemorrhaging”, and how “his ear canal was lacerated internally from a tremendous blow to the side of his head”. These few examples prove how her word choice was so specific in the sense that it really makes the reader visualize the horrendous pain that her son underwent and gives them a sense of fear.
The visual imagery of blood represents the lasting guilt of the speaker, as blood stains are incredibly difficult
Today, Eli and I decided to try and invent something, ''to help people working in fields to be able to pick seeds out of cotton easier,'' said Eli I have been his assistant for years now.
15) The intensity of such a dramatic scene is impeccably encapsulated by sensory, a reaffirmation of societal roles, and ultimate justification before Dana succumbs to her fear. In context, Rufus had just sexually approached a frightened Dana, prompting her to rush to the attic and get a knife. Rufus followed her to apologize, then proceeded to wrap his arm around her, when Dana suddenly contemplated loving him. “[She] could feel the knife in [her] hand, still slippery with perspiration.”— a major denotation of nervousness, as sweat glands moisten hands under such circumstances. Then her mind raced toward the other end of not stabbing him, as “A slave was a slave. Anything could be done to her. And Rufus was Rufus— erratic, alternately
Could the killing of an unborn disabled child be considered acceptable in today’s society? Selective infanticide is a very controversial topic that many have argued about over past years. In her article “Unspeakable Conversations” disabilities activist and lawyer Harriet McBryde Johnson demonstrates her viewpoint on this issue. She writes this article as a story, with herself being the narrator. It follows her journey as she feuds with Peter Singer, a Princeton University professor, who has an opposing perspective regarding the killing of unborn disabled children. With this in mind, Johnson reveals her point of view using the strategy of a Rogerian argument and the rhetorical elements of
He also uses figurative language to stress the amount of blood he lost on the battlefield. He personifies it; “and a leap of purple spurted from his thigh”, to focus the reader’s attention on that he was bleeding profusely. It was bleeding with so much speed and volume that it took on the appearance of a fountain.
How it haunted them, tortured them, how the pain held them responsible for letting it even happen. How it all could have been avoided had they not been where they were when they were. She cut him and cut him and cut him, till he was nothing but a canvas of red— a canvas of blood. He couldn't see, and she was sure he couldn't feel anything anymore. By then the dear murderess was certain he was slipping and she was so glad he'd lost his life by her hands and Azairah was overcome with such a sweet satisfaction. As much as she hated his gray eyes... it was a shame she couldn't get to see the light disappearing from his eyes, the life being pulled from his body with each freshly made wound he
What the man hadn't counted on was the vast difference between between reading about the vile acts, such as a woman having her intestines ripped out, and the reality of witnessing it first-hand. And, although his back was turned, and vision obscured by the tears welled in his eyes,
victim, seemed to move his iron heart from its bloody purpose,” connoting the memorable events
In contemporary nursing practice, nurses need to integrate scientific knowledge and nursing theories prior to providing optimal health care. Nursing theories guide nurses to treat clients in a supportive and dignified manner through client centred approaches. However, it is challenge for nurses to practice client centred care in daily realities due to heavy workloads. In order to assist nurses to decrease the gap between ideal and real practice, Registered Nurses Association of Ontario (RNAO) develops Best Practice Guideline of Client-centred-care (Neligan, Grinspun, JonasSimpson, McConnell, Peter, Pilkington, et al., 2002). This guideline offers values and beliefs as foundation of client-centred care, and the core
I stood between the two bodies, looking into their lifeless, glassy eyes. Crimson blood pooled around their stiff bodies. More blood ran down the blade of the knife I clutched in my hand, gathering at the point and slowly dripping on my leg. What had he done?
““It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking and fishing, and no book nor study.”
Another hand, the skin several shades lighter than my own, appeared in the frame and made a grab for the handle. “Can I feel?” I looked up at him too: my fiancé. That word didn’t bother me so much as the one that came after it. Husband. That Word laced the corset tighter, crushing organs, sending panic into my throat with the bright beat of a distress signal. I could decide not to let go. Slip the forged nickel and stainless steel blade (the Shun, decided I liked it better) soundlessly into his stomach. The salesman would probably emit a simple dignified “Oh!” It was the mother carrying her crusty-nosed baby behind him who was the screamer. You could just tell she was that dangerous combination of bored and dramatic, that she would gleefully, tearfully recount the attack to the news reporters who would later swarm the scene. I turned the knife over before I could tense, before I could lunge, before every muscle in my
I was rendered powerless in his ravish and the innocence that ran through my blood began to escape against my will. As the butcher proceeds, my identity and self-worth are ripped away from me. The only thing left of me is my heart and with a wrench it leaves my body. The