Bipolar
To him, the blood smelled like freedom. It seeped out of the wounds on her chest and her leg, and to him it smelled like freedom. Her eyes were glassy and unapologetic as he lifted her bloodstained body and carried to the cornfield to be buried, coming back and doing the same with Ted's a moment later. Ted's eyes were open and glaring, and Mort dropped him hard on the ground in revenge.
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(and the blood covered the screwdriver ohsoslick and ohsolovely and it glistened like a diamond or an emerald or, more appropriately, a ruby, and Mort's eyes glistened, too, because he had finallyfinallyfinally done it. amy's eyes wee like marbles; he had played marbles as a child and oh, he had always won. and amy and ted (oh, how glad he was to be rid of ted) were his prizes. and they would nevereverever tell.)
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Mort never had been the greatest at cooking, but he reckoned that he was getting pretty darn good at fixing corn now. It was all he had eaten, aside from Doritos and Mountain Dew, for days; he was getting a bit tired of it, but he had no choice. The bodies buried in the cornfield were evidence, and one must always dispose of evidence, no matter what it takes.
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(they were sixfeetunder now and unable to say a word to him anymore. no longer would he be subjected to amy's constant bickering and ted's bullshitting and "oh, you're neverhereanymore". amy was such an idiot; Mort was right here. he had always been here. and he could almost imagine amy's glassmarblefragile eyes staring up at him from beneath the worms and dirt and filth, and he wondered if ted's deceivingevilterrible eyes were looking back at her.)
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Mort unplugged the phone again; the sheriff had been calling far too much and neither man truly wanted to talk to the other. Mort believed that, sometimes, it was better to just leave well-enough alone, and this was definitely one of those times. Yes, Amy and Ted were dead-but why was the sheriff so sure that Mort had killed them? Mort wasn't even sure that he had killed them.
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(Mort had lovedlovedloved her at one point, but now she was deaddeaddead and absolutely nothing to worry about. he had put the shovel through her prettylittlechest into her prettylittleheart without a second thought. the sheriff said that he was crazy, but Mort knew better. no, he wasn't crazy, he was completelyfuckinginsane and he loved it.)
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Sometimes, murder takes years to play and even longer to initiate. Sometimes, though, it's as easy as a screwdriver to the leg and a shovel to the chest. And, sometimes, it's something that you always knew was coming but just didn't want to think about…
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("everything you're doing is wrong.")
(the end)