Old Resting Grounds
They said a girl had died in the living room, wrapped in a cheap floral dress with burgundy curls framing liquid blue eyes that had never ceased their glow, even as the merry brook of blood from her torn skull trickled through creases of the parquet flooring.
They were right of course, he would know. He'd killed her with a lullaby on his lips, between little sips of scotch and whiffs of her dirty red curls. There were to be no witnesses. The memory was dim, dulled beneath 5 years of blood, pain and a multitude of little sins. A soft pulling of the past at the dusty blankets of time that tugged his lips into a cruel smirk.
She had red hair too, this tired whore caked in too much make up, badly painted nails that raked at his hair and the buttons of his shirt. Her place, not his she had told him. She had just moved in last week and the empty old room was too lonely for her liking.
Roughly, , he pushed her unto a dirty old couch, tripping her on mismatched stilettos before proceeding to undo the bodice of her dress, his fingers playing all the right notes.
On this very piece of furniture they rutted, the same very piece where that skank had slumbered. Half dozen cans of beer were his company, strewn on half decayed flooring as his little girl peeped past a door seal, in wide eyed curiosity. He had strangled him there and there, the little Shinra employee that had dug his grave with his drunken bluster of things best untold. Lead to the brain was deemed far too merciful. He'd loved the shock in those pug sleep- filled eyes as he slipped the wire around and through the rolls of fat, adoringly coaxing those last little fetid breaths that wheezed through broken bellows as his victim gasped, choked and died.
He hadn't bothered with her underclothes as he mounted her, in a flurry of thrusts as she moaned and writhed beneath him. It was over in minutes. It's all very much the same came a thought unbidden, making love and giving death. All too easy.
He stretched and rose, the act over, Joints popping beneath a framework of sinewy muscles marred by a random patch work of scar tissue, his feet ringing out the hollows of the wood as he proceeded to retrieve his clothing that trailed from the half open paint peeled door.
"You're leaving?" came her voice, half accusatory, a paragon of innocence of his identity. Through the flickering light of the corridor she thought she saw him tense as he shrugged on his creased crumpled shirt, then the night blue jacket that smelled of death and stale nicotine. An arrant hand produced a cancer stick from the depths of a pants pocket as he proceeded to leave. She was hurt now, used and angry. "Was that all I was? A roll in the hay? A quick fuck!?"
The empty gin bottle dashed against the wall mere inches from his head.
She never saw him cross the span of the room, just the feel of his large fine boned fingers boring into her neck as she squirmed and choked, his large mako tinted eyes that had once hinted at madness and hidden pleasure now flecked with emerald fury.
"I killed a man in this room sweetheart" came the whisper that brooked no lie," and put a bullet in his little daughter's skull." Fear dried her tears as he released her from his grip.
"No more then five she was," his voice caressed, sweet as sin." with hair as red as summers wine."
She whimpered, her eyes following the drawing of a black tinted revolver.
"Come to think of it, it was so very much like yours."
The sound of a single gunshot that resounded into the night was paid little heed, its cascading flight rising and melding into the melody of chaos and squalor that the Midgar slums held at midnight.
Under an old streetlight a blue clad stranger took a drag on the last remains of a battered cigarette, fingers toying with a lock of fire-kissed hair covered in red.
They said a girl had died in the living room, wrapped in a cheap floral dress with burgundy curls framing liquid blue eyes that had never ceased their glow, even as the merry brook of blood from her torn skull trickled through creases of the parquet flooring.
They were right of course, he would know. He'd killed her with a lullaby on his lips, between little sips of scotch and whiffs of her dirty red curls. There were to be no witnesses. The memory was dim, dulled beneath 5 years of blood, pain and a multitude of little sins. A soft pulling of the past at the dusty blankets of time that tugged his lips into a cruel smirk.
She had red hair too, this tired whore caked in too much make up, badly painted nails that raked at his hair and the buttons of his shirt. Her place, not his she had told him. She had just moved in last week and the empty old room was too lonely for her liking.
Roughly, , he pushed her unto a dirty old couch, tripping her on mismatched stilettos before proceeding to undo the bodice of her dress, his fingers playing all the right notes.
On this very piece of furniture they rutted, the same very piece where that skank had slumbered. Half dozen cans of beer were his company, strewn on half decayed flooring as his little girl peeped past a door seal, in wide eyed curiosity. He had strangled him there and there, the little Shinra employee that had dug his grave with his drunken bluster of things best untold. Lead to the brain was deemed far too merciful. He'd loved the shock in those pug sleep- filled eyes as he slipped the wire around and through the rolls of fat, adoringly coaxing those last little fetid breaths that wheezed through broken bellows as his victim gasped, choked and died.
He hadn't bothered with her underclothes as he mounted her, in a flurry of thrusts as she moaned and writhed beneath him. It was over in minutes. It's all very much the same came a thought unbidden, making love and giving death. All too easy.
He stretched and rose, the act over, Joints popping beneath a framework of sinewy muscles marred by a random patch work of scar tissue, his feet ringing out the hollows of the wood as he proceeded to retrieve his clothing that trailed from the half open paint peeled door.
"You're leaving?" came her voice, half accusatory, a paragon of innocence of his identity. Through the flickering light of the corridor she thought she saw him tense as he shrugged on his creased crumpled shirt, then the night blue jacket that smelled of death and stale nicotine. An arrant hand produced a cancer stick from the depths of a pants pocket as he proceeded to leave. She was hurt now, used and angry. "Was that all I was? A roll in the hay? A quick fuck!?"
The empty gin bottle dashed against the wall mere inches from his head.
She never saw him cross the span of the room, just the feel of his large fine boned fingers boring into her neck as she squirmed and choked, his large mako tinted eyes that had once hinted at madness and hidden pleasure now flecked with emerald fury.
"I killed a man in this room sweetheart" came the whisper that brooked no lie," and put a bullet in his little daughter's skull." Fear dried her tears as he released her from his grip.
"No more then five she was," his voice caressed, sweet as sin." with hair as red as summers wine."
She whimpered, her eyes following the drawing of a black tinted revolver.
"Come to think of it, it was so very much like yours."
The sound of a single gunshot that resounded into the night was paid little heed, its cascading flight rising and melding into the melody of chaos and squalor that the Midgar slums held at midnight.
Under an old streetlight a blue clad stranger took a drag on the last remains of a battered cigarette, fingers toying with a lock of fire-kissed hair covered in red.