Sometimes I like to write fiction

A Possible Excerpt from a Story Possibly Called "Keeping Up Appearances: A Memoir of Style and Function"

{Reader discretion advised. "Why?" you ask?} 

He was perfect. He was everything I had ever wanted: blond hair, blue eyes, muscular build, much taller than me, an Ivy League graduate with a massive inheritance from a recently passed mommy and daddy. No family to speak of. Perfect for assimilating into my family, adding to my collection of darlings. I didn't even know his name. I didn't need to. It didn't matter what his name was. He was the perfect holiday gift, brought to me by my favorite lovely.
He looked so peaceful bundled up in the chair, his head rolled to one side. A lock of flaxen hair dangled lightly on his temple. We were going to have so much fun together.
I walked quietly up to him and breathed in his scent. He gently stirred and I smiled. He smelled good. He wore a musky cologne and there was a hint of cigar on him. He'd been at a local bookstore earlier, like he always was on Thursday nights. I'd been following him for weeks, tracking his FaceBook page, reading his blog on capitalism and free trade and other pretentious topics. Every Thursday he gathered at a local bookstore with some other college boys and they sat outside smoking cigars and talking literature and politics and, on occasion, video games and women.
I reached up to gently caress his cheek; his skin was so soft, his jaw, so strong. He jerked his head up and widened his eyes, the pupils constricting in panic. I smiled at him and he calmed for a moment. He looked around quickly and then realized that he was tied to the chair. I giggled as he tried to pull his wrists from their bindings. Yes, we would have a very good time indeed.
"Hey," he croaked, his voice hoarse from not being used in the past eight hours, "get me outta here!"
"In good time," I replied sweetly as I backed away to get a better look at him in his wakened state. I leaned against my work table and watched his eyes dart furiously around the room. I didn't know what he expected to see. My work room is very drab: concrete walls, a stainless steel wash basin, my work table; nothing too interesting. The lighting isn't very good either, just a large work light over my table, not even windows for good natural lighting. Not that I have much use for natural lighting, I prefer to work at night.
I turned my back to him and put my nails in my mouth as I mused over my tools.
"Hey!" the boy yelled at me, "Hey! I said let me outta here!" then he started to shake the chair. The sound was annoying. I bit down on my nails and started to chew. Which tool, which tool? I thought to myself, chewing away at my nails as the boy clattered away with the chair and continued his hollering. Oh, no, I thought, this noise will simply not do. I ripped the edge of a nail off one finger and picked up my trusty Blue Monarch.
"Hey," the boy said, but this time not yelling (thank god! He was getting annoying!), "What's that?"
I turned around and presented my blue handled butterfly knife like I was Vanna White. For a minute, it seemed like he had calmed down. But then he went back to hollering and clattering that damn chair.
"No, no!" he screamed. His screams were annoying, not smooth and intelligent like his regular speaking voice. In three quick steps I was in front of him and slashed at those obnoxious vocal chords. I'm good at what I do; his voice was done after that and replaced with the velvety sound of gurgling blood. I sighed and smiled as I looked down at him and listened to that comforting sound.
A soft light was cast on us both and I heard footsteps on the stairs. The boy was convulsing and his eyes were wide. I smiled at him and toyed with my Blue Monarch in my right hand, running the tip of my index finger along its handle.
"Kyrie," a familiar voice spoke, "what have you done?" It was my boss, Jonathon. He was looking from my knife holding hand and then to my face.
"Hm?" I said dreamily as I looked up at him.
"Have you been biting your nails again?" he asked as he walked over to take a closer look at my hand. I blanched in shame.
"Nice work though," he smiled, "I knew you'd find something sophisticated to do with him."
I smiled. That's why Jonathan's my favorite lovely.

-Unfortunately, I'm too lazy to proof read, so let me know if there are any glaring errors or anything that generally annoys you about this piece. I may or may not expand on this idea. I haven't decided if I like it yet.