She was out cold. The blood, seeping hesitantly between the cobblestones forming an ugly question mark, merging with the raindrops and creeping in between the cracks, was slowly pouring into the gutters. Although he didn’t want to hurt her, he had no other choice. He did try to explain, to make her understand, bu she just didn’t want to empathize with him. And now, this cold, wet, smelly alley, will have to be her personal OR.
The thin yet stubborn trickle of blood crawling out from under her legs didn’t seem like it will stop. He needed to hurry. The numbness of his palms was not because of the raindrops punching his skin, but rather due to the almost frozen coat hanger blocking the blood flow to his fingertips. He inhaled, and spread the woman’s legs.
His patient was breathing, but he could see from the way her chest rose and fell in sync with her irregular breathing that it was any minute that the person might become the cadavre. It was sort of funny, when he thought of it, that the scene he belonged in was almost a ritual dedicated to question marks, from the blood to the coat hanger. That moment, in which he was able to make such a comparison, was the last ring in a chain of events held together by the silken thread that divides life and death, and that was ironic as life itself.
“Oh how I wish,” he thought, “How I wish you hadn’t made me do this. Did things really have to come to this?”
The microscopic icebergs within the drops of water smacking his face had nothing to do with the drops welling in his bloodshot eyes. His gaze lingered on her inflated belly. He had to do this, and time was of no assistance. With unexpected skill, he plunged his crude operation tool between the pregnant woman’s legs, and inside towards her womb, and started to apply what he had been researching about for a long time. Although the sea of meat that he felt like he swimming in felt nothing like the meat he bought from the butcher’s for practice, he managed to dig out a big portion of the fetus, bit-by-bit. At that point, he had more or less acquired his goal, the rest was cleaning up.
He was a killer, a monster. He thought of how people actually ate this stuff, he wondered how it would taste. Even though the same thoughts crossed his mind with every piece of meat he pulled out, he probably would never find out.
Her breathing came in short intervals, she was probably going into shock. The drops of sweat that formed on his forehead and dripped onto the belly of his victim was not because he was ending an innocent life before it even started only to feed it’s no longer beating heart to the rats in the sewers, but rather due to the fear of his mother waking up while the coat hanger was still inside her.
The empty streets echoed with the wails of the sirens, the police were coming, but he was already done. His chances of getting caught were very slim, he had not left any evidence, and he had been very careful.
Besides, it was worth the risk.
He loved being an only child, and he was going to stay that way.