Wasting a good body

1-Soft Murder

A sickening squelch scrapes across the worn, dirty cement. The sound abbreviated off the walls to filter back into deaf ears. A thump, a step, a slap, a thump, a step, a slap, getting up the stairs was the worst part, he may have been strong but carrying more than your weight in a bag was always difficult. Especially when you're as exhausted as he was.

A groan of try escaped through his chapped lips, licking them in concentration is always a bad habit. The door banged open, pinging off the dented fridge as it opened, swinging half shut again from the negative force.

The bag was slid across the cracked tiles of the kitchen floor, one crack in the granite cut a small opening in the bottom of the black bag. A thick, warm, crimson liquid leaked out of the hole and made a small trail as the man made his way outside. He'd notice his trail once he had returned, but for now it would remain abandoned.

The atmosphere outside was cold, white snow covered the ground and it crunched down under the weight of his feet. He smiles through his gruff dark facial hair, a little too long to be stubble, a little too short to be a beard, he likes the sound of his feet on the ice. A thud sounds through the abandoned trees as the bag is thrown haphazardly into the back of a yellow pick up, shaking the car with the movement.

The front hood dips down as the man jumps into the drivers seat. Shoving the rubbish and power tools out of the way to sit comfortably. The worn green leather gives way to his shape as he relaxes back, it's fitted to his form over time.

The car roars to life and the lights turn on to fight off the fast approaching darkness. The engine clacks and clatters, coughing slightly before sliding into a level rev. It screams as it shifts into gear, rolling down the steep hill and into the vacant dirt road.

With thick tree lines and the moon climbing into the blue sky, the truck shoots down the road, going over the recommended speed limit. With high beams on it races around the corner, practically drifting over the loose dirt. The driver struggles to stay in place in the rattling cockpit as he's thrown around by his own doing. The man winces and uses his free hand to clutch his side, an old scar that still aggravated when cold. It brought back old memories,

He should have never let the knife slide into his skin.

The car rolls to a stop, the lights dying as power is taken off them and the car is turned off. What was once a loud roar is the woods, screaming through the trees, was now a distant idle accompanied by the disgruntled noises of a man fed up with the world around him.

He slides out of the vehicle, his steel capped boots slapping down on the snow. His large feet take him to the back of the Ute. Gentle hands unhook the back, letting it flip down into his other hand, which caught it swiftly.

The bleeding bag was taken from the back much easier than it was put there. It smelt heavily of death, metallic blood and bodily fluids leaking from its small hole. The bag is discarded on the ground, for now, sinking into the snow, slowly making it red.

Metal scraped against metal screamed into alive ears and made the killer wince at the noise. Grinding his teeth he took the axe out, holding it in his left hand. He then picked up the bag in the other, swinging it over his shoulder.

The boots trudged through the snow with ease as they made their way to the frozen river. It seemed to grow colder the nearer the man grew to the waters. He began to shiver through his many layers of clothes that hung off his back, he should hurry, the cold would taker him over if he stayed out too long.

The man stopped, his warm breath freezing to mist as he panted. With a blood stained blade in his hands, he swung up and struck the ice, his feet staying firmly planted on the bank.