He cradled the dead body in his hands.
It was such a beautiful thing. Death was a brazen thief that stole the warmth from his victims while he watched. But it never took everything.
It still left enough to touch and gently stroke and remind him how majestic a corpse could be, long after its heart had stopped pounding and its limbs had stiffened and its blood had clotted and turned cold.
Besides, he was skilled in removing all traces of death’s touch, for he was a man who took pride in restoring his victims to life.
So patient was he, so precise. He could take a body twisted and frozen and bent out of shape, all matted with blood and bone fragments. Within a short time it would be cleaned and propped up so lifelike, so alive, you were sure its eyes were gleaming and its chest about to rise with newly found breath.
Who knew why he enjoyed doing this so much or why it had become such a passion. Perhaps it offered a kind of redemption, a way to pay back the universe for all the killing. Perhaps that is why he took so much care, for once the grisly business of extinguishing life was over he became gentle with his victims, almost loving.








Leave a Reply