April 29, 2006.
A perfect spring day.
The fog was so thick he felt blinded. Lost.
It had reached the few remaining pills beneath the vanity now. It being blood. Still warm. Already dead seven minutes. Thick and red. The air smelled like death—like victory to the girl lying against the tiles, her naked stomach deeply inscribed upon with the blade of a kitchen knife.
The pills were beginning to dissolve. Her slender arms were flung pointlessly above her head, palms up, reaching for the knife. It lay a foot away from her outstretched fingers—just beyond her reach.
There would be no more death tonight.
It had sliced her stomach before she collapsed. It had sliced her stomach deep enough to kill both she and the child she carried. A cold and brutal and intimate work of art.
He had no thoughts when he found her. Three years earlier he might have vomited or wept; today he only stepped over her body to turn off the tap. He greeted her, got no reply, and didn't care. Size eleven Oxfords traced a bloody trail to his office where the police found and arrested him only moments later.
April 29, 2006.
A perfect spring day.
The sun was shinning brightly.
The only fog was within his mind.
He had misplaced himself.
YOU ARE READING
Aphasiac
General FictionHarold thought science would make him a hero. He thought he could save the world. If only he'd stopped for a moment and thought about saving himself...
