Murder is just another task, a mere chore. the more interesting the chore the more you will want to do it. The more praise you attain from a task the more you will want to do it. Scrubbing dishes, mopping the marble flooring, and sanitizing areas is not my specialty and was not in my training, but you know that already, do you not?
My blood ran cold, like ice crystals expanding then shattering into a razor ice slushy that coursed through my veins, pumping in the thick life muscle known as my black colored heart. Adrenaline seized control and I allowed it to intoxicate and dominate my body.
I had witnessed murders in cold blood, I myself have murdered in cold blood, in the most gruesome of ways imaginable, but never had I seem something so contorted, muddled to an animistic point. Never had I witnessed a scene full of so much blood that the walls, floor, furniture, ceiling even, was entirely drenched in the essence of only one being's life fluid. Never had I smelt such a pungent odor, or seen as much paper white bone protruding and exposed from the skin, stripped from tender tendons, ligaments, tissue, and flesh.
The being was skinned, alive I presume. In the corner, a foot exactly to the left of the twisted, mangled thing was the "poor soul's" skin, rotting away with every tick the clock emitted. From the putrid aroma and discoloration of the skin it could be determined corroded and easily categorized as charred. Pests such as flies began to gather in large quantities. A clock lay stationary two feet to the right of the unidentifiable victim. Vital organs were missing from the grotesque body, others, such as the bowel and intestines, were strung around the mound of pure tissue, muscle, and bone like creative decorations.
The skin had been stripped cleanly, however, the muscles were torn and shredded to an extreme-clearly unnecessary.
The eyes lay in a porcelain bowl, a foot and a half ahead of the bloodied artwork, and melted down until liquefaction.
Hair was strewn around the room like Christmas tinsel, most portions turned to ash when touched so they were deemed burned beyond repair and inaccessible for identification. This stunned the already clueless members present.
The cheap, once tan carpet acted as a sponge and soaked up the cooling, clumping, sticky blood. The walls were painted deep scarlet, maroon, mahogany, and a crimson red; they defiantly broad casted the 'impure' acts that now presented themselves to the world; to the outcasts of our anti-social, lonely nation.
Injuries that were attained prior to the violent action brought to my attention had just begun to fester, they could not be more than two weeks old.
A puddle of lipids, waste, urine, and pus resided a foot and a half behind the mountain of muscle, tissue, organ, and bone.
No detective would be able to crack this case, let alone stomach the sight and scent that I found so alluring, so inspirational, so beautiful and artistic.
The most fascinating of sights was three feet diagonal from the pile of grounded, decorative meat. The heart had been dissected and obtained then placed in a large metal box with the top half sawed off. The best part- the heart was emitting an untamed blue flame, smoke bellowing from the muscled pipes that once were connected to arteries and veins. Blue vs. red, a heart thrown to the flames, a possible signature.
This scene was a beautiful mess, a beautiful perfect mess; a beautiful disaster.