Black Short Stories : The Mind of Psychopath: Blood On The Couch

Discussion in 'Short Stories - Authors - Writing' started by MsInterpret, Jul 16, 2011.

  1. MsInterpret

    MsInterpret Well-Known Member MEMBER

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    The sun was shinning, the birds were chirping, and the flowers were in full bloom. But there was blood on the couch. At first I was unsure of the stain on the piece of furniture. Maybe I was inebriated and drunk to much red wine last night. And if so, how would it leave a stain that looks like it consist of more than 20 ounces? Ridiculous! I drink Chardonnay.
    I touched the stain with the palm of my hand and rubbed my hand against the fibers of the couch. Still damp, still warm, still fresh.
    I brought my hand up to look at the deep amber that wet my flesh. Staring into the glistening red I found myself lost in thought. Whose was it? Did it come from me?
    I walked into my bedroom and looked myself over in my full length mirror. Nothing, not even a scratch. I tilted my head back and sighed with relief.
    "D**N IT!" I yelled. I felt filthy. It was time for a shower and then some breakfast. Maybe then I would realize whose bodily fluids those were.
    Before I stepped into the shower I glanced at my blood covered palm once more and felt a bit of sadness come over me, as I thought of the beautiful red washing down the drain.
    After I took my shower and put on my fit for the day, I then made some waffles, a hard boiled egg and a glass of cold whole milk.
    I sat down my meal in the dinning room and looked at the couch in the living room, still covered in seductiveness.
    My meal was delicious and the view of the blood covered couch added a bit more flavor to my breakfast.
    I washed the dishes and put them away, for it was now time for me to head off to work. I walked towards the door, but stopped in front of the couch once more. Dropping to my knees I placed my head against the cushions. The smell of coagulation was intoxicating, yet warmly familiar. I did not want to leave for there was a comfort here. But it was time. As I began to leave and pick up my keys off the table near the door, I saw a picture. But it was not me. I smiled to myself and thought, This isn't my house. And so I left.
     
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