Damien

Stomach bile slowly crept up his esophagus for the third time in the last twenty minutes; he was nauseous but not in a way that was appalling to him. No, this was just a rather unpleasant sensation. One in which his muscles shook and his forehead dripped with sweat in this dim room that left him hot under the collar. A condition such as this had to be, at the very least, some perverse, distorted form of a joke. The same sort the fucked up joke school boys played on the girls they lusted after. That brainless shit. Where they tug at pigtails and say excessively straightforward words that tend to make little girls blubber. After all, no women can truly appreciate a consciousness of the truth and those boys do with time, become men.

This was like that, possibly.

Damien sat at the edge of the mattress, feet dangling just above the floor, eyeballs trained to the eggshell colored walls. Four walls that kept him within. Not just his body but also his mind. A volcano, pumping with an intense heat and burning the hopes and dreams of every person the lava spread to. Heart palpitations, a collapsed lung, this fucking shit is a joke. It has to be. He'd wake up soon, spring awake from this fucked up parallel universe and pinch himself until he fucking screamed. This was a sham.

But then again, murder isn't always planned out. Killers don't have to have a motive- an explanation for what they've done. After all death is just another pin on everyone's personal road map and we all make that road trip eventually. Killing, no not killing this wasn't murder this was a hunt. This was a fucking psychopathic butchering and it can be spontaneous. It can be a goddamn surprise. Leaving all the neighbors and newscasters with questions and overused phrases like "he wasn't that type of man." Well how the fuck do you know the type of man he is. One could suppose there would be numerous complications with slicing up a skull with an Exacto blade and determining the make up of a man, that particular man, who was indeed viciously sliced up. Making any “manly” qualities of his trivial. So that bullshit line as it passes through the airwaves or makes its way through the speakers of your 54 inch flat screen can warp your fucking mind a little more. This wasn't what was intended but this wasn't a complete mistake. There had to be an explanation for why D was now confined within this fucking six by seven foot hole.

Looking down at blood covered converse and the residue of death. Damien laughs because that seems to be the type of man he is.