(This post if for the death category)
And there’s blood everywhere… worse than the smell, sticky looking, shiny, wet, scarlet… blood soaks the walls like paint, dripping… only it dries faster than paint. This is fresh… too fresh… too late; they were too late, 10 minutes… 20 at most… two open doors, which one to choose? Both gaping maws… both roaringly dark… empty? So much quick dry scarlet paint, like nail polish… but no body in this room… no red trails on the floor… which doorway? Too hard… too difficult a decision…
Left.
Tentative steps… toes swallowed by one black hole… should legs follow? Is it safe? Why does the first one have to be like this? The scent of blood… of an invisible breeze… where is that coming from?… the scent of death mingles with the smell of fear… Step… Step… One foot in front of the other… Legs, torso and face swallowed, arms follow… gone… The torch beam pierces the inky blackness, a solitary companion, a connection to reality… like a fog horn on a stormy night… the only thing that can show you the way, keep you here… bring you home… A hand appears under the beam… slashed wrists, defense wounds on the palms, but no blood around them… strange… why bother to clean the corpse when the next room is marinating in their blood? Perhaps the killer was interrupted? Perhaps the victim didn’t belong here… shouldn’t have been left here… or perhaps the perp was just out buying some new surgical gloves and a litre of milk for the cat… perhaps he’d be back soon… He?… Why did people always assume the criminal was a he?… An arm is connected to the hand… the fog horn works its way over the body, illuminating each new limb slowly… slowly… the mind takes photographs… processes them… a woman, mid to late 40’s, classic dyed blonde hair… short manicured nails… traces of eyeliner and lipstick left on her face… she looked after herself, a professional? But where were her clothes? It’ll be a business suit, knee length skirt, navy blue or grey… silk blouse… bingo, in the corner, torn, discarded… like her… she’s just like a pile of laundry… dumped, clean, but awaiting ironing and putting away. Her face… peaceful?… serene?… accepting of her fate… her poor hands… She fought at first… but gave up as she felt the life drain from her… no hope… as each drop left her body she surrendered a little more… so pale… eyes closed… because she blacked out before she died? Or did she not want him to see her light go out?… so pale… so wrong… touch her?… why?… Oh my god, she’s still warm… so close… too late… 10 minutes… just 20 more minutes… BASTARD!… why…
(I’ve never written anything like this before. Please tell me what you think! Thanks! 🙂