Behind twin slatted wardrobe doors, she hid and held her breath.
Her limbs were shivering so much they hurt.
With knuckles white from tightened grip, she spied between the slates.
Her racing mind was franticly alert.
For barely a few feet away, there stood a frightful sight.
A tall imposing man covered with dirt.
This muscled brute first scanned the room, then bolted up the door,
before he turned to unfasten his shirt.
Eventually he dropped his slacks then fell upon the bed,
and soon was loudly snoring and inert.
So feeling safe she slipped on out and deftly crossed the room.
Her sweaty legs still clung against her skirt.
For those of a frail disposition, the author doth urge 'read no more'.
As you might find you're shocked or unsettled, by what happens as she unbolts the door.
Yet two doubts did confound her peace and make her pause again,
so turning round she crept back from the door.
The scene her eyes paid witness to was haunting at her soul,
til in the end she could not bear no more.
So palming her stiletto blade she lanced him in the heart,
then twice, then thrice, then once again made four.
And as his life force ebbed away from those deep mortal blows,
his guiltless blood did seep onto the floor.
A peaceful man of law he'd been, the best his precinct had,
and her identity he'd knew for sure.
For in his pocket was the note, "If I should die tonight,
the serial killer is my Eleanor".
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