a one shot i wrote one day
The girl stared at her clenched fists then at the body of the stranger on the floor next to her. Blood ran down her face as she cried. The red liquid mixing with salty water streaming from her eyes. She didn't know what was going on.
Did she kill the stranger lying with a slit throat? Did she wrap the piano wire now trailing from her fingers around his neck and pull? Was she responsible for the blood now staining the floorboards? Or had she been set up?
She couldn't remember anything from the previous night. She couldn't remember anything from the previous day, or the day before that or the day before that. Did she know the murdered man at all? She couldn't recall his name. She couldn't even recall her own.
The girl uncurled her clenched fists and cried at the blood still coating her palms. As she stared at the monstrosity she vaguely remembered touched her head where it now throbbed. Slowly, gently, she raised a hand to feel. It came away with even more blood, some of it crusty and dry, some of it fresh.
She realised she was sitting in blood, a puddle of it. Not quite as much as the murdered man but still a puddle. The victim's body didn't bleed, it was just coated in blood, dry blood that was long brown. He'd been dead for a while, a day at least. And she couldn't remember, had she even been conciouss?
She wanted to scream aloud at the mystery of it all, who was she? Who was the victim? Did she do it or was she another victim? Did she know who that man now lying dead on the floor was at all? She clenched her fists again and cried and cried and cried.
this was a one-shot i thought of one day, everything about it suggests mystery i think, well, almost everything