Ellie peered into her birch wardrobe looking for that day’s outfit. She never got very attached to clothes that were new, so her selection of clothes was compiled of different used items. She always said that they told their own story. Ellie picked out this light pink, lace dress that stopped around her knees and puffed out when it got to the hips. It paired very nicely with her paper-white skin and her light-brown hair cut into a bob. “Number 4,” she stated as she examined her dress in the mirror, “that was one of my favorites.”

She reached down and picked up her favorite white combat boots. They were always special to her. “Number 1,” she said with an odd sort of pride. She looked again in the mirror at her ensemble and grinned, noticing how the small red splatters matched a little bit with the pink of the dress.

Just outside of her room was the kitchen, it had mostly white furniture and no windows, the only light came from the chandelier that cast a warm glow over the whole room. As she walked over to the fridge her boots clopped against the wooden floors like the hooves of a horse. When she got to the fridge she opened the door and grabbed one of the many heads off the shelves. She took off the slightly blood-stained plastic wrap. It had a note on it, number 36, “such a beautiful shade,” she said as she read out the label in her head. She walked down the white, wooden staircase and into her quaint little flower shop. She reached over and grabbed a paintbrush off the counter along with a dozen white roses. She dipped the paintbrush through the neck of the head and into the pool of blood and started to paint the soft white petals. Just then the bell rang above the door. “Ah yes, Number 37,” she said in a bright, almost cheerful way, “you will make one beautiful bouquet.”