Mind of a Psychopath
The Weaver Atropos
((Time Frame)) September 3, 2003
((Comments))The possibilities. Is it Schulidich, or Crawford?
((Warnings)) First Person POV; confusion
Mind of a Psychopath
I don't know how it happened.
The bullet just…it just struck. Not at its intended target, no—but hell, a hit was a hit.
It was an addicting sound…that blast of gunpowder abruptly streaking through the perfect silence of the night.
A tearing of flesh…burning almost as it broke through tender skin. An interesting smell too, I guess…a slight scent of ashes—flash of a Christmas memory by the fire. Comforting as opposed to frightening.
I glance around the room detachedly, letting lazy eyes drift over the newly fallen corpse that lay only inches from my feet. A condescending raise of an eyebrow. That damned body had fallen so violently, it had succeeded in marring my pristine trousers. An indolent kick. Yep. Dead. A smile.
Sniff curiously, cocking a head slightly in thought.
Mold certainly had an alluring air about it…especially when mixed with fresh blood. Acrid odor, perhaps—smelling almost damp in its quality. Another curious scan of the room. It was a wonder the whole building hadn't gone up in flames. Even now, a pungent smell of gas lingered in the air, intermingling with that familiar trace of rain and dirt. Was it even raining? A careless shrug.
The other had run, footsteps echoing starkly among the quiet night. I had missed the one I was after. A cluck of a tongue. Familiar metallic tang of blood in my mouth. He had fled, but not before swinging a desperate punch.
Bend down to stare into lifeless eyes. Glassy, hazy—pupils swallowing the irises. Gentle stroking fingertips. A kiss. Dead lips pressed against bloody, lively ones. Limp arms wound about a pulsating neck. A spicy cologne.
Stand up again, meticulously brush away nonexistent wrinkles. Force of habit. Re-adjust perfectly perched glasses. Brush back short, midnight hair.
The sweeping of eyes once more about the room, searching. A glint of metal. An acknowledging sigh. Kneel down, pick up the discarded cartridge. Run callous fingers absently against the granite stone. Take advantage of the opportunity—wipe bloody hands against the floor. A shiver. When had it gotten so cold?
Turn away, crawling slightly on the floor. Pull off a smooth ivory scarf. Wipe it indifferently against the edges of silk pants. Straighten up again. A frown. A dull crimson color remained smudged against bright white. A weary rub of the eyes.
All this, and the target had escaped.
I shake my head. Wind the scarf about my neck once more. Stretch indifferently, rebutton my suit. Catch a glimpse of my reflection in the scattered shards of a mirror by the wall. Crazed leer, empty eyes. A bemused scoff.
Still as immaculate as ever…stained even more than before.
I guarantee that I'm more confused than your are. There is a bit of a sequel (explanation) that I've got written up, but I doubt it'll be posted.