Day 187 – The Killer

I’ve only slept 4hrs, I’ve worked 10.5hrs and err that’s my excuse. So ner.

Word count: 577

Blood was dripping from her hands like water. It oozed from her fingertips and trailed on the floor and over her clothes. It was everywhere. Sarah could not move: she could not move a muscle for the state of her hands and arms. She had lost her way in a dream and had slipped into a nightmare.

What had happened? Where had she been? She recounted the memory as if it were a film. She were there, they were speaking. Everything was quite normal. Everything was relaxed, harmonious. How had it come to this?

Greg had been laughing. They had both been laughing. Wine had been drunk – the bottle and its remains stood as witness to the crime on the table, motionless as if it had not been disturbed in days. It had been such a lovely evening. It had been jovial. The sun was streaming in through the window, despite the hours of rain that had preceded it. There was nothing that would have caused this, was there?

The minutes ticked by and Sarah was still drenched in a river of red. The body lay still, speechless, defenceless. Sarah dared not go near it less it awoke; those lifeless eyeballs might begin to spin in their sockets; those teeth might just begin to chatter; those limbs, though death had snatched them, might just rise from their resting place.
What had become of the girl with the laughter and the wine such that she now stood above the body of her lover, soaked in his blood and screaming for the memories to return to her? What had been said, what had he done? The mind was building a wall against the past: she must not remember; she must not recall.
Sarah found herself stumbling towards the bathroom, barely in charge of her faculties. Her instincts were taking over. Guilt played no part on the stage. Tonight the protagonists were cunning, lying and manipulations and they would played with such talent.
Her hands were filthy. The white tiled bathroom was soon a butchered shade of red. She scrubbed and she scrubbed and like the Lady before her, she could not see an end to the scarlet guilt. Throwing the soap across the room, she slid across the stream of blood back to the body and examined the situation further. It had been a pleasant evening, how had the knife come into it at all?
Did he mock her, did he laugh? Did he say that he would leave her, well he might? What could have possibly have driven that cold, sharp blade through his aortas and his lungs? Did he not like the wine she had spent hours buying; did he cheat on her, make her fool? Was going to attack her, did he strike?

But soon other questions descended upon her thoughts. No more did she dwell on whys or hows for practicalities and logistics were now rising like the sun to the forefront of her mind. Where would the body be lain to rest and how would she explain the rest? Her dearest lover; her one and only – where did he disappear to now? Did they argue and he left or was he simply just depressed? The thoughts and plans began to churn and churn and twist and turn.

But still the question plays on her mind, for how does a lover become a killer and how does a killer play the part of a lover?

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~ by S.G. Mark on April 11, 2012.

One Response to “Day 187 – The Killer”

  1. Her confusion seems very real in contrast to a lack of sorrow over her lost lover… she’s still detached, even numb.

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