April Flash #6
based on prompts by:
Amygdala: wisdom of yonder shore; blood-sauce; off-white; bar room eggs; geometric ratio; Tibetan checkers;
Haredawg: The silken sad uncertain resting of each purple curtain; but when it comes to slaughter you will do your work on water; he mistook the shadow of his equipage for that of a blackbird;
Silverstar46: An empty can of Whipped Cream; an old candle and a picture of Jesus on the nightstand; It was a certified letter with an unmarked address;
An empty can of whipped cream sat on the abused and dusty nightstand, next to an old candle, burned down to the nub and a picture of Jesus, collecting dust, dirt and other bits of random pollen. The room stank of sweat and apathy, a humid haze hanging above the bed with a cloud of smoke from the endless nights of chainsmoking conversations. The world had collided with the wisdom of yonder shore, memories and realizations yet unrealized bridging the gap between the present and the pause of the encroaching future. Wisdom was borrowed in this place and not inherent. You never knew what you had till it was gone. Condiments and desert toppings did not do much for nutrition but who cared about staying healthy when there was blood-sauce dripping from the curtains. They used to be a lavender hue, to compliment the off-white undertones of the peeling paint on the walls and the ceiling. But there was now the silken sad uncertain resting of each purple curtain, puddling on the floor like a body of water left to stagnate and grow moldy in the residual damp. It had been awhile since he left this room, yet stood at the window, hiding behind those lavender rolls of fabric, hidden from the eyes of the world but taking it all in. Watching. Waiting. And all his victims came to him. He thought himself a mind-projector, calling out the terms of surrender to the willing, who followed the unmarked trail to this dingy room like lambs to the slaughter. The bathtub full of stale water marked many an unhappy resting places before they were moved on, discarded. They lost their usefulness once the soul had left their eyes, once the air had ceased to circulate. He was always told to be careful the voices in his head told him that drowning was a less articulate method of disposal, that bloody remains should remain on dry ground. But when it comes to slaughter, you will do your work on water, his conscious demanded. He wanted to watch the floating struggle of submersion, see the mild panic and ravaging will to live, the thrill of the fight before the inevitable submission. They all submitted in the end. The trail was dead or nonexistent. No one knew he was here, right under the noses of the guard, right in front of the faces of those innocents who feigned indignant outrage at the heinous acts being committed in their backyard. The thought would make him laugh, if he wasnt so caught up in the undertow of desire and longing for his next fix. He took a jar of peanut butter from the nearly empty refrigerator, swiping his greasy finger through the dredges at the bottom and licking them clean. His last meal had been bar-room eggs, the protein surging through him and making him stronger. His sharp and jagged teeth cut his lip when he smiled, the blood pooling and dripping off of his chin. This is how he wanted to be remembered. Not that he could ever be forgotten. There was a geometric ratio to becoming a perfect killer, an equation that unbalanced the mind and destroyed focus like a game of Tibetan checkers over whiskey, when the pieces had a mind of their own and moved themselves and were not dependent on the owner of the seat to think for themselves.
The detectives watched discretely. Their videos, set up in a rush while he had been out the night before covered every corner of the rat trap hotel, saw him eating his fine dining, saw him prowling the landscape from the safety of his window ledge, like a crouching tiger ready to pounce on the grace of a deer below who had the misfortune to cross his path. They had been on to him for months now. It was a certified leter with an unmarked address which had done him in, really. You never know how these things are going to play out, which tools would come in handy. The only shame was that they had waited so long to act, causing the body count to add two more victims by the time it was said and done. But one had to be careful. Cautious. Certain. What was certainty these days. A high powered rifle, scope set, hammer cocked, loaded, aimed and ready. This monster mistook the shadow of his equipage for that of a blackbird, not realizing that he couldnt fly. And the spray of red mist painted the room a different shade, a surprised look across the face, and the demented smile sealed on the jagged lips for all time.
Youd think with the scope of the reality that such a thing would be remembered. It never even made the front page. Just a blip on page four, next to an advertisement for facial cream, and an anti-wrinkle campaign. It would be forgotten. The strategy of life loss, thievery and betrayal was seldom remembered, these days.
new prompts: spider-web heavy with dewdrops; midnight awakening; solar eclipse