Warm blood flows evenly from the faucet of his victim's neck. The fatal wound clean and precise. As he watches the life fade from them, the real fun begins.
He didn't want a lot of screaming– just the sound of his blades puncturing through flesh, fat, muscle, and bone. The base of his blades has teeth which he uses to saw the bones in half. He can't feel it soak through his clothing, but he likes the way it tints his gunmetal crimson when he strips to wash them. He can never really get the stains out, but those damned spots he wears like jewelry. Rewards he reaps from each victim.
A dull crack from the femur.
He dug his finger into the marrow, scooping it out and rubbing it between his fingers. he wiped it against the wall.
Dragging his index dagger from sternum to abdomen, he makes no incision. For a moment he takes in how the skin looks intact– admiring it. Like a nicely-wrapped gift yet to be open.
"Hmph~" A distant chuckle. Then a sharp inhalation.
Schlick!
Silver optics stain red as droplets spray his face.
Schlick!
Crude gashes decorate the pale skin.
Schlick!
His keen knife sees every wound. He laughs at heaven as the sun shines through the blinds.
Schlick!
Viscera spills out. Blood and bile.
Then a fist to the sternum.
Snap!
No bruising will happen. No clots. No scabs. No attempt to heal. Just like his own body. Devoid of life.
With his four longest fingers, he digs a hole in the chest, just big enough… There.
Hiss.
Bloodied fingers curl around his own core.
Yank!
He pulls it from its main hookup, the cords draping out of his chest like the intestines of his victim. He shoves the glowing blue orb into the hole he made.
"There."
Admiring his work, he watches the pulsing light, almost purple now, creating a stained glass. His victims would never know how much he truly worshiped them. They weren't worthy of it alive. But how perfect they looked dead! The best gift he could give them.
When this part of his ritual is done, he lies next to the victim, staring up at the ceiling. Brown spots speckle the white paint. He sighs out a puff of steam.
"I can't feel pain like you. Not really. Sure my brain still knows how to inform me that I am in pain, but I don't feel it. Like when I destroy your body when you're already dead. Or when I allow your body to rot. You can't feel it. But you're not really in there, are you?"
The body doesn't respond. They never do.