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When You Think Too Much

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I stood alone in the living room's dim light, right next to the overturned cushioned chair. Blood trickled down from the sides of my knife and tapped down onto the tips of my brown shoes. My hair fluttered against my face as the ceiling fan twirled above my head, the lightbulbs clinking together as the fan shook. A faint, orange hue flooded into the room from the sliding glass doors as I looked at my knife. I stared down at my own reflection in the sharp metal, the red covering part of my face.

I couldn't help but crack a small amused grin as I looked at myself. My face held the expression of one of those TV supervillians who just loved to cackle maniacally at his own "brilliant" plan. Only, I knew there would be no tight wearing super hero to stop me. I placed the sharp end of my knife softly against the front of my middle and index fingers. Slowly, I began to press the edge down, gently moving the knife back and forth until I heard the soft "snap!" of skin breaking. I let the edge rest in my fingers for a second or two before lifting it away. They felt warm as my blood rivered down into my palm and over my nails. I tucked the smooth end of the knife against my chest as I gazed at the red across my hand.

I eagerly pointed my two cut fingers toward the direction of my lips before opening my mouth and sticking them inside. I closed my lips tightly against hand, sucking gently at the two fingers against my tongue. The warm, metallic taste washed over the roof of my mouth and the inside of my cheeks, reaching the very pit of my chest. My fingers stung, but it was a good kind of pain; sort of like a tingling that rose up from my bones and nails.

After a few moments, I removed my fingers from my mouth and looked at them. My saliva had removed the blood from the surface of my hand which now shined with the sticky spit. The two small slits on my fingers pulsed a few more lines of blood which I wiped against my shirt. I was going to burn it anyway. I turned my head to the left, looking at the wall, its white paint had been stained with a bright splatter of blood. It occurred to me that most people would have thought a big stain like that stain looked ugly on such a nice wall, but I thought it made the wall look better; sort of like one of those abstract paintings you see in museums.

"Enough messing around," I thought to myself, "we can't just leave him like that." Funny how I think "we" as if my mind is another person whom I'm talking to... But then again, who is the one who listens to my own thoughts? I reach into my back pocket, pulling out a pair of black winter gloves and slide them over my hands. I then walk over to the fireplace and grab the beanie off the mantle that I had left there earlier. I slide it over my head, letting it hug my ears as I walk over to the couch. I know it would be safer to wear these things  while I commit the act, but I want to feel the body and blood with my own hands while it is still warm, people don't realize just how fast warmth can escape a dead person.

I look down at the man laying on the couch cushions, his blood staining the white fabric; again I think it looks better that way. I wonder what I should do with the body. It will probably be a couple of days before anyone finds him, and I always leave a special scene for the investigators. I can already imagine the flashing blue and red lights, and the yellow police tape as the detectives looks for clues about me. The thought makes me giggle. They always search for clues like hair, and fingerprints, but I never leave any. Those poor detectives. Their jobs must be pretty difficult.

But seriously, what can I do with this body? I wonder. Perhaps I could cut open his torso and make him wear his own intestines like a scarf, or maybe I could drain his blood into a bucket and make the whole living room an abstract painting... or perhaps I could place him in the bathtub and cut off some limbs like I did to that young girl in New York... boring. Don't repeat things you've already done.

While cutting open his guts did appeal to me, I figured I could take a more simple approach. I reached down and grabbed my victim's hand and lifted it up. Already cold? Figures. I take my knife and gently cut his wrists, letting the cool blood drip down onto the white carpet. This guy must have really liked the color white. I throw the man's bleeding hand back onto his body and then I stoop down to pick him up. I slide my gloved hands under his body, hoisting him up by the backs of his knees and his neck. Something suddenly stinks. Hes soiled himself. Yuck.

Grimacing from the stench, I carry him over to the fireplace and set him down. I lift up his cut hand again and raise it to the wall. I then slowly write the words "Come in." His hand slides smoothly across the wall, elegantly leaving a sparkling red trail behind it. Once I'm done I set the dead man's hand down and lean his body under the words before taking a step back to admire my work. I messed up a little on the e, but other than that everything looks okay.

I leave the living room and step into the kitchen, looking at all the shiny high tech appliances. I shuffle through all the drawers, being extra rough just to make a more interesting scene for the detectives. I throw a couple of spoons on the ground and leave the left refrigerator door open and then take what I came for: matches.

Before I step back into the living room, I survey the kitchen one more time, looking at the tiny carnage I created. Looks convincing. I walk back to the living room, the familiar scent of blood crawling back up my nostrils. If you asked me, blood smells better then any sort of flower. I take a match out of the small cardboard box and slide it against the frictional side. "Fffftissshh!" The small flame burst to life in front of my eyes, swaying from side to side like it was dancing, or waving a hello. What a thought! But it makes me smile.

I throw the small flame into the fire place, watching with joy as the wood sparked into a crackling, hot orange to match the sunset. I slowly lower my knife into the orange, keeping my fingers grasped around its handle, watching in delight as the flames lick hungrily at the metal. The fire crackles and whispers as it burns the knife, slowly turning the blood on it a dark, dark black. That's good enough.

I pull the knife away from the fire and stare at its blackened edges, another one to add to my growing collection. I stick the knife into my back pocket, it's nice and warm. I walk back into the kitchen and fill a pot with water, leaving the sink running as I walk back and drown the fire. Suddenly the room is quite again with the fire gone, and I am the only breathing person. I look back at the man and my painting, "Come in." I'll have to burn my clothes somewhere else.

I walk out the back door, making my way from the house. I can't wait to hear about how the body was found on the news in a couple of days; who knows? The story might even make it past the local station. I wonder how long people will talk about it. I can feel the burnt knife press up against my rear and I smile, hands in my pockets as I stroll down the street. After all, it's just the life of another human.

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