Title; The Smell of Blood
Author; Michelle Birkby
Summary. Someone's thoughts, during CSI. You can decide who.
Disclaimer. They aren't me. Believe me, I know. I've checked.
Rating G
Blood has a smell all of it's own. Sharp. Distinctive. When you see pictures, see the dark red splash across skin, the black puddle on the ground, sharp relief on the printed page, you have a visceral shudder of primordial shock. But you cope. You bend your clinical eye to the details, learn to map the blood, trace it, classify. No longer the life force of a human, it's a forensic tool.
But it's not until your first crime scene that you SMELL the blood.
And that's what makes the rookies throw up. Not the red sticky puddles. Not the tracery of blood everywhere. The smell. It's primitive. Instinctive. You may never have smelt blood before, but you know it the second it hits your olfactory senses. Genetic memory kicks in. your bowels and stomach empties, making you lighter for the run. Chemicals flood your joints, adrenaline burst through your system, pushing you, pushing you to run, run away, run now NOW! It's innate. Imprinted on every gene in your body.
So why don't I run? My senses react to the smell of blood, just like everyone else. But my instinct is not to run. It's to search, discover, reveal. While others run past me, to the sweet scent of fresh air, I walk forward, towards that iron-sharp aroma. While others have to fight to control their heaving stomachs, I calmly continue, through the horror, towards the malevolence my body should be tearing me away from. My mind clears, sharpens, the smell sparking off not a fight-or-flight response, but an addictive, possessive curiosity. Slowly, as others run, and look back at me, the cold-hearted freak who's not afraid of the smell of blood, I respond to the call of my nature, to the blood. Alone of all my kind, I seek it out.
Alone. Until I find it. Because I follow the scent of the blood, only to find him there. Expecting me.
Always.
Blood has a smell all of it's own. Sharp. Distinctive. When you see pictures, see the dark red splash across skin, the black puddle on the ground, sharp relief on the printed page, you have a visceral shudder of primordial shock. But you cope. You bend your clinical eye to the details, learn to map the blood, trace it, classify. No longer the life force of a human, it's a forensic tool.
But it's not until your first crime scene that you SMELL the blood.
And that's what makes the rookies throw up. Not the red sticky puddles. Not the tracery of blood everywhere. The smell. It's primitive. Instinctive. You may never have smelt blood before, but you know it the second it hits your olfactory senses. Genetic memory kicks in. your bowels and stomach empties, making you lighter for the run. Chemicals flood your joints, adrenaline burst through your system, pushing you, pushing you to run, run away, run now NOW! It's innate. Imprinted on every gene in your body.
So why don't I run? My senses react to the smell of blood, just like everyone else. But my instinct is not to run. It's to search, discover, reveal. While others run past me, to the sweet scent of fresh air, I walk forward, towards that iron-sharp aroma. While others have to fight to control their heaving stomachs, I calmly continue, through the horror, towards the malevolence my body should be tearing me away from. My mind clears, sharpens, the smell sparking off not a fight-or-flight response, but an addictive, possessive curiosity. Slowly, as others run, and look back at me, the cold-hearted freak who's not afraid of the smell of blood, I respond to the call of my nature, to the blood. Alone of all my kind, I seek it out.
Alone. Until I find it. Because I follow the scent of the blood, only to find him there. Expecting me.
Always.