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She held that weapon with a vulgar sort of rapaciousness, clamped soundly in clammy hands still trembling from the intensity of the act that they had performed. Her face, however, was still; a complexion undisturbed by what she had done, her eyes drawn only to what she held in her hands.

It was an imperfect thing now, marred by splatters of blood and deformed from the impact. Still she held it, clutched it close to her chest and regaled in the feel of her rattling heartbeat against its tender surface. It was the only thing that caused the fracture of her hostile bearing and brought the most satisfied of simpers to her slender lips. Fingers with lustrous manicured nails trailed along the something she grasped tight, soothingly fondling its buckled edge.

She had not used it with that much force, surely?

A glance to her feet cordially answered her question. Oh yes, she thought wistfully, I suppose I did.

The body was still warm, so warm one might expect it to reanimate suddenly in a flutter of synthetic lashes. Sanguine lipstick was smeared across her powdered face, indistinguishable from the blood that mangled her hair (though it appeared mangled regardless; apparently quite the fashion), ran across the expanse of her forehead.

Her murderer stooped, to brush a split hair from the dead girl's face. One hand held the thing hoggishly, at a distance, as if she were petrified that the corpse would steal something so precious from her, despite the distinct disadvantage of it being' Deceased. A pity, she thought, ogling the blue eyes that were still quite wide, in apparent shock; she was quite the pretty girl.

Still, it was going to look better on her.

It was then that she raised the boot aloft, marvelled at it, as if taunting the corpse. She admired the snug mink lining, the tawny suede of its epidermis and its tapered front. The hand of glimmering nails was brought to her creamy chest and she squealed, at the very thought of it. She could only think how beautiful it was and therefore how much more beautiful she would look in it.

Disaster struck, upon kicking off her clumsy stilettos and pressing a naked foot into the cushiony entrance. No, no' This could not be! She pulled it off with horror, her immaculate face now one filled with dread and something of a sickly green colour. With a tremendous shriek she hurled it across the room with such primitive brawn it perforated the surface of the plaster.

The wrong size. Always the wrong bloody size.