How to Kill a Murderer

The Blood Stained Lamb

        The metallic taste of blood floated through the air like a red fog, suffocating him as he continuously raised the dull knife into the air, and plunged it into the distorted face below him. He let out a scream of pain through sore, sealed lips every time the knife fell through the air and pierced the skin like a stray arrow in battle, but the body was long dead and long silent.

        He didn't want to stop, though. He didn't want to stop until the body was nothing but a rusted dust. He wanted every stab to be felt in the man's soul. He wanted to feel the muscle, meat, and bone parting ways for his rage with every outburst he forced into that knife. He never wanted to stop as when he did, he knew the pain would return. Yet he was only human, and hell awaited him.

        Finally, his arms gave into a fated slump, unable to remove the knife again from the bloody tissue and shattered bones once more. He sat there for a second, staring but not seeing the gruesome sight before him. His hands violently shook, like a man stuck in the cold, drunk, alone, and vulnerable. His eyes were small like needles sewing through the world as he peered around helplessly. His skin was like an icy glacier and it froze the air around him.

        Once his eyes focused, though, and the ocean of blood before him burned its way into his brain, he gasped for air as if he had never even tasted it.

        He sat up from his pathetic, hunched over lump, taking in the product of his outlash. His hands were soaked in the crimson liquid, and so were his knees. In fact, every part of him was touched, splattered, or soaked in the ruby water. He stared at himself in the pool of blood, reaching his hand to his cheek to gently stroke the droplets away from his ghost-white skin, only smudging them more.

        Then he let out a cry of shock as he threw himself off of the dead body, hitting the ground behind him with a thud and a wince of anguish. He continued his shrieking of pain and fear as he backed up on the hardened floor, all until his head hit the dining room table with a rough thump.

        He couldn't see the world around him, he couldn't see the walls of the tiny apartment he was trapped in, he couldn't see the cluttered furniture or the piles of trash. It was just him and the dead body of the monster.

        Hot tears reddened his eyes and wet his cheeks as he began to take in what was going on. He tried to force his lips to open once more, but he just couldn't. There was no use in even trying.

He stood up slowly, wobbling as his vision began to spin. He had to get out, he had to get help! Would the police believe him? If he called and claimed he killed him, would they arrest him?

        That's when he heard it, a ding. The smallest, quietest sound he'd ever heard, and it was followed by a bright light. He turned his head, and sitting on the counter of the small kitchen was a phone. He tried to rush for it like a bat out of hell, but tripped on the chair and fell into the hard-wooden floor. His head spinning and crying, he tried to scurry, his weak limbs flailing like a bug on its back. He managed to push himself off the ground and grabbed onto the counters edge, pulling himself the rest of the way up.
        He gripped the phone aggressively, looking over the lock screen. It was hard to read past the convulsing of his hands.

        "(Aug. 27) Lizard boy, r u okie? Havn't seen u at school lately," the first notification out of only twenty-two read. "(Sept. 1) Lizard, prof is gettin kinda pissed u ain't here, might wanna call the school and sort things out."  "(Sept. 4) Lizard, I'm getting worried buddy, where the hell did you go? I had to pay your rent AGAIN." " (Sept 8.)Lizard, this isn't funny dude, I'm going to file a report from the police if you don't text me ASAP!!!!"

        His friend, Alberto, seemed frantic, he must have been the only one worried about where Lizzy had gone. His fingers hurried along the screen as he opened it through his password and checked the date. September fourteenth, it was September fourteenth. He had been here, trapped, for three weeks. He scrolled back to his messages scanning through the rest.