Some years later, the bright young Maxwell Edison was majoring in medicine. He was heavily praised by all of his professors, and was considered by all to be a moral young man at the epitome of all healthiness. Of course, Maxwell's physical health was impeccable, but anyone who looked closer, anyone who lifted the dark curtain and dared peer into the dark recesses of his brain, would surely shy away in horror. Something dark lurked inside Maxwell, a creature born, surely, of being the lonely child on the playground. There was so much anger, sadness, and so much else bottled up inside him.
Maxwell was taking a nice relaxing walk around campus. It was a beautiful spring day, and the fresh air made the turmoil inside him slightly reside. Slightly.
He nodded to a girl bustling past, with bundles of books in her arms. He watched as she tripped over a small pebble in the path, sprawling across the ground and scattering her books everywhere. Would he have had the choice, he would have kept straight on walking, but the other people on the sidewalks would have thought it absolutely offensive. So he bent down and started to help the girl gather her books. Once she straightened up and brushed off, she casually introduced herself as Joan, and sucked Maxwell into a conversation that he normally would have found the torturously boring. But Maxwell barely noticed.
All his attention was on a small cut on her knee, which she had attained from her trip. That glorious crimson substance from his youth slowly leaked from it, and he watched, entranced, as he answered the questions automatically and without thought. Some time later, Maxwell found them parting ways, each other's phone numbers in hands. Maxwell was pleased, and formulated a plan. He would call Joan. He would have more of her blood.
He was so excited; he didn't know how he could wait until that evening. He was impatient. He searched feverishly through his apartment for something to let the blood flow. He found an old, dark, and rusted hammer, and, to kill some time, set about covering it with aluminum foil, because he though that the blood would be more beautiful, by far, spattered on the light metal, than the dark iron.
He was so excited, he departed his dorm early to pick up Joan. As she opened her, smiling widely. BANG, BANG! Maxwell brought his silver hammer down, and it collided with her head. She fell to the ground. The blood was everywhere. To Maxwell, it was like a wonderland. He stood, staring at the thick, cherry-colored fluid. He just sat this state of barely breakable hypnosis, until he heard footsteps heading his direction. With one final glance at his personal hypnotist, he broke the spell, and fled.
Maxwell repeated this process various times, he found a new hobby in murder. He enjoyed how blood trickled calmly all over, painting the surroundings with a coat of scarlet, how everything in its path abandoned its color and adopted that compelling ruby hue.