Claudia had gladly perched upon whichever hard-surfaced roost would have her tilted, hungry stare, her storybook pale skin. She was excited to watch the bloodshed. She’d even put away her phone (which, meant something, considering she adores this modern marvel). To her, these idiots deserved what was coming to them. Why the fuck would you ruin somebody’s art? There were probably originals in there that he could never replicate. People had taken her poetry books before (her own work, mind you) in acts of absurd revenge, so like maybe she was projecting a little, but still.
It was gory and beautiful, dramatic, and everything she'd shown up for.