Post by Sean Colton on Feb 26, 2009 13:51:43 GMT -4
Sean's nose wrinkled, the acrid smell in the atmosphere burning his lungs and sending burning shots of pain throughout his body with every inhale. He didn't bother breathing through his mouth; it wouldn't have made a difference.
The emergency assistance personnel were trying to decide which way to effectively wrap the dead body before them. It was integral to the case to see if there were any traces of violence that they had missed during their first examination.
But Sean had gotten there first. And he had seen what it was that had killed him. There had been a cut, one his wrist, right on the vein. It had been small, though, and Sean could not have possibly imagined that it would have killed him at all.
His thoughts were getting jumbles. He decided to review the events carefully, and in order.
I was on my way to work, he thought, phrasing things the way he would if he was required to make a statement; hopefully, he'd be gone before then. And I heard a scream in the distance. I ran a block and a half, but I'd lost the sound. A couple hunnies littered the streets--you know what kind of an area this is, ya?
As he formatted his story, he began to put himself in the role of the person he would portray. Without thinking, he pulled his bright red hair back into a ponytail. He hadn't bothered to shave the small goatee that had grown in over the last few days, and he stroked it, knowing that it would stay to add to the image. He wore a trench coat, standard tan. Clearing his throat, he knew that a broken voice would be the way he spoke when he relayed his story. Gravely, and rough.
Heard the scream, right? Yeah, so I find the building--neighbors gatherin' in front of it already; easy to pick out. Run up to the top floor--always the top floor, ya know--and a chick's standin in the hall, door closed.
She knew that I was lookin' for. She says, "That smell...*I know its gotta be blood. But I can't..." or somethin' like that, and she backs away. Guess she's the landlady.
I open the door, and the floor's covered in blood. Single body on the foor. No wounds, nothin'. And I called the police. Ambulance got there first. Blood all over the floor in the room, no wounds on the kid on the ground. Didn't step in. Didn't want blood on my new loafers.
He wouldn't tell them about the strange part, though; the part where the wound was closing up right in front of his eyes. He turned abruptly and tried to walk away, slowly, to see if he could get away with not going to the cops.
The emergency assistance personnel were trying to decide which way to effectively wrap the dead body before them. It was integral to the case to see if there were any traces of violence that they had missed during their first examination.
But Sean had gotten there first. And he had seen what it was that had killed him. There had been a cut, one his wrist, right on the vein. It had been small, though, and Sean could not have possibly imagined that it would have killed him at all.
His thoughts were getting jumbles. He decided to review the events carefully, and in order.
I was on my way to work, he thought, phrasing things the way he would if he was required to make a statement; hopefully, he'd be gone before then. And I heard a scream in the distance. I ran a block and a half, but I'd lost the sound. A couple hunnies littered the streets--you know what kind of an area this is, ya?
As he formatted his story, he began to put himself in the role of the person he would portray. Without thinking, he pulled his bright red hair back into a ponytail. He hadn't bothered to shave the small goatee that had grown in over the last few days, and he stroked it, knowing that it would stay to add to the image. He wore a trench coat, standard tan. Clearing his throat, he knew that a broken voice would be the way he spoke when he relayed his story. Gravely, and rough.
Heard the scream, right? Yeah, so I find the building--neighbors gatherin' in front of it already; easy to pick out. Run up to the top floor--always the top floor, ya know--and a chick's standin in the hall, door closed.
She knew that I was lookin' for. She says, "That smell...*I know its gotta be blood. But I can't..." or somethin' like that, and she backs away. Guess she's the landlady.
I open the door, and the floor's covered in blood. Single body on the foor. No wounds, nothin'. And I called the police. Ambulance got there first. Blood all over the floor in the room, no wounds on the kid on the ground. Didn't step in. Didn't want blood on my new loafers.
He wouldn't tell them about the strange part, though; the part where the wound was closing up right in front of his eyes. He turned abruptly and tried to walk away, slowly, to see if he could get away with not going to the cops.