It's plain and simple, but you know in your mind that the type O blood in your hands does not match the very same structural clumps which coarse through your veins. That blood on your hands is not yours. You look down, and notice that the small innocent dream you have had is reality. striking isn't it, how it can all go to shit in a matter of minutes, your entire life, the memories of you and your mother cycling in the rain, pushing your youngest brother George into a puddle, all enshrined by the thought that you have just murdered an innocent young girl. Sure, you didn't mean to do it, you're just a quiet boy who plays too many board games and solves Rubik's Cubes in the hope that you can gain some kudos in that big boy version of Show and Tell - maybe even some friends. You haven't really murdered someone, don't be so naive, the body submerged in a blood of your archaic demise is merely resting, yes, resting in your onslaught. Peace has succumbed your body, and that shaking feels only a brittle hand on your strong physique. But it's a party, the cliche location for a Halloween Horror to unfold, and you're the killer! Imagine that, the lonely schoolboy and his dead trophy girl, stepping up to his podium in shackles, aren't you a fucking ideal sight?
There's always time to run, so why are you standing there? Don't you fucking dare pull the 'traumatised boy' routine, there isn't a midlife crisis mother here to shield you from the taunts of the mob.
You're on your own.
You've established that, and now you've come to terms with the evasive action you must take. People are dancing in the room below, and if there is any positive, at least you killed her with a 1954 baseball swing, that's one piece of vintage trash rendered useless. Why does a child of your age have such a rotten item in a glass frame above his bed? Good, you're still wearing the mask your father bought you from the local Castaway's, minus the stench of old folk and worn rubber. Ten pounds, like hell he paid that amount. Tantamount to this awful headgear, you still have blood on your hands and a corpse against your feet - luckily this wasn't a pyjama party or you'd be charged with rape in addition to assault! Well you've gone and killed her now, so finish the deed and stuff her up. Don't leave any fingerprints, the Poirot marathon you watched with your mother two weeks ago surely taught you enough about disposing of bodies. Take off her gloves, she never was Bell of the Ball anyway, and be careful not to stain them with too much red ooze, garnishing her corpse is one thing, getting white satin dirty is another.
Now isn't this an iconic scene? You, the masked figure, pulling the damsel from her soft rug to her closet - it's similar to a farmer collapsing their scarecrow for autumn harvest and preparing for the next yield. However, be sure not to forget that while the farmer dries his brow from the blistering rays of the sun, you wipe the excess onto your cuff since you have brutally murdered a passing individual. You never dreamed of getting close to a popular girl, let alone killing one - she might even make a good conversation piece. You need to clear your conscience, and begin your escape. Look around the room, and in your hands - that blood isn't going to dissipate, eliminate any last fragment of DNA which has you bound by a leash of discovery. Run, wash your hands, but don't look down into the sink. Your mind is clear, and you have begun your retaliation, fighting back the society that has oppressed you for so many years. The person in which you slaughtered like a wild deer caught under a vapour of a burning forest was indeed - much like the wild rarities we strive to diminish - innocent. For this reason, tell yourself that you will not look into the sieve that you shake wildly over. It is not your time, you are not weak, and despite killing unjustly, you have the element of surprise to lean against. Retract your evidence, hold it filmy beneath your costume, and grin deeply, for this situating is going to fix itself; running will not accomplish anything. Change begets change, and our shifting environment means that our expiry is one which we dare not think about, yet we are happy to see strike the hearts of those we do not feel that same mutual emotion for.
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This is the introduction of a short story I planned to write a few years ago. Finding it once more, I feel as though I could delve deeper into the personality of the character. Please let me know what you think, I feel as though my writing might need some work, haha
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