There she is, bro-
ken, lying at the bottom of the stairs.
What a mess. Crap…what the heck am I going to do?
Sighing, he walks down the stairs, carefully stepping to avoid the blood.
He stares at the mangled corpse running through his possible options, I could wait until
night and bury her maybe? Or throw her in the lake. I can’t throw the whole
body though…I need small manageable pieces. Where could I
cut her up? He decides that the kitchen would
be easiest, because there he
could clean up the
easy-peasey. And that way he wouldn’t need to cross through any extra rooms. He drags her straight from the bottom of the stairs into the kitchen. He feels a surge of satisfaction messing it up. This had been her space, her pride and she kept it immaculate. He thought it fitting that he was ruining the spotless white floors with her blood. He grabs each of the many knives in their kitchen one by one, testing the weight. Thank god she was a professional chef. He settles for the butcher knife with its heftiness and perfectly sharp blade. Granted, all the knives were perfectly sharp.
“Thank you, darling. Your OCD has saved me quite a bit of time.”
The knife sparkles as he strikes her.
First the arms:
Then the legs:
Just below the knee,
Right between the ball and socket of the hip,
Finally the head,
Right where the spine meets the base of the skull.
Perfect, she would have been proud.
He wraps up each piece in trash bags with one of the coffee mugs that she loved to weigh it down. They had tons of them and each one had a cute or funny little phrase or picture. He enjoys matching the pieces with the mugs. ‘Hang in there’ with the right arm; ‘fall seven times, stand up eight’ with the left leg; and so on. He puts her favorite god-awful flowery mug with her head. He then piles all the bags on her perfectly clean granite counter, and walks back to the base of the stairs.
There is a large red stain there, and a challenge. The blood has soaked into the carpet and it won’t come out completely no matter how many times it is washed, but then again someone would notice if it was gone. It was a point of pride for her that rug. Persian, cost a fortune and she pointed it out every time someone was over. What to do? If I bleach it, there’ll be a spot and that looks bad, but I can’t get rid of all the blood otherwise…hmm. He decides to clean the stairs while he’s thinking.
very much blood on the
stairs only on the one where she
gashed her head. Here there is a large,
red, glistening, puddle that has
started to drip down
to the stairs
He goes over the area with a fine toothed comb. He makes sure there isn’t even the smallest speck of blood left. This monotonous task allows his brain to puzzle over the rug and figure out what to do.
A slow smile spreads across his face, he’s figured it out.
Clean the blood with bleach and then cover up the white spot by spilling the paint left over from the living room on it. He hated that shade of blue anyway, it was her pick, and it would clash wonderfully with the rug. He bleaches the rug and then take the leftover paint and gently tips it onto the spot. He tries to make it look like the paint was knocked over and then hastily tried to be cleaned up. When he is satisfied with his work he returns to the kitchen to finish the job.
He takes the packages on the counter and packs them into the trunk of his car. He drives to the lake slowly and without incident. Once there he makes sure no one is around and opens the trunk. He takes each bag and throws them as far as he can in the lake
He hums the whole time.
Buy the mug int eh picture here!