Untitled: Tape 293
I've recently revised this fanfic (previously named "Self-Helplessness) due to some really helpful criticism – thanks, Over the Moon! :0) Enjoy!
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Wide green eyes flecked with gold taking in nothing through their bulging pupils.
Paper white skin given a neon glow under the iridescence of the sputtering halogen tube over the corroded bathroom sink.
Skin that contrasted brutally with the sickening salmon-color of the tepid water on which auburn hair floated and pooled around two gaunt shoulders.
April.
April lying dead, rapidly infusing the cracked porcelain bathtub with pints of her lifeblood.
The image had burned itself onto his corneas. He had only to close his eyes for a moment and it was five years ago all over again.
There he was. The throbbing bladder that had brought him to the bathroom was forgotten. Standing, bag of Bar-B-Q Fritos in his left hand, on the threshold of the doorway, he stared holes into the bloody razor dangling precariously from her limp fingertips. His keen eye for detail had observed even from the doorway purple nail polish that had been nicked while still wet on her middle and ring fingers – fingers that were caked with drying blood.
It was these same nails that were captured moments later by his third eye– his camcorder. His heart thudded insanely loudly in his ears as he looked through his viewfinder, a single blood-flecked cuticle dominating the entire frame. He held his breath and (from behind the safety of the viewfinder) cut to her face. Her mouth, a sensual "fuck me" red, was touched by a soft uncharacteristic smile. Frozen forever on the china doll skin of her face. The iris of the camera didn't react well with the brilliance of the shimmering tear streams that lead to the corners of her slightly parted mouth.
He, however, reacted by finishing the shot and, without looking back, quietly closed the door and returned to his bedroom, film cartridge in hand, and deposited the documentary at the bottom of his underwear/film equipment drawer. It was only after this that he sat down at the kitchen table, slowly gnawing on one of the remaining Fritos, and dialed 911. He had forgotten that he needed to piss like a racehorse.