; Extract from a sketch for a narrative: His hair was so thin, it made him look terminally ill. He spent the first half of the day hopeful, this slowly degraded into a suicidal depressive funk, from thinking about having a great dinner later that evening, he began to envision himself falling to his death, over and over again, in different ways. He felt that he should spend his evening naked, with a choker leashed to a pole in his room. He would put it an notch higher, to feel the spikes on the choker dig into the skin of his neck, and apply sharp, painful pressure into his throat. He knew at times like this he felt most orgasmic to recite poetry, and he decided upon reciting Blakes A Poison Tree. It reminded him of his third murder. He crafted, what he calls his ode, after the stanzas of the poem. To him, murder was poesy. To him, true murder isnt about just taking a life, but about the glorification of the corpse after. Many killers have done this as an act of rebirth for the victims, but to him, it was nothing far from artistic expression. His third victim, a boy of fifteen, to him, master of fifteen liberties. He found him smoking hashish. The police found him dissected at the hip, ribs ripped out to exact spider-like limbs, head thrust up, eyes glued open, foot, severed at ankle, jamming his jaw open. organs laid out neatly beside him. He needed to kill again, his seventh victim reminded him of a Van Gogh painting, not sure which one till he has completed her glorification.
Posted on: Mon, 13 Oct 2014 08:50:29 +0000
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