Gray Blood and Smoke

The man stares blankly at the cut up body at his feet, he drags his heavy gaze to the clock hung on the timber log wall. It reads 2:37 AM, he's been sitting there for almost two hours.

The plastic sheets that coat the floor and walls crinkle and rustle as he pushes off of his lonely wooden chair, the only piece of furnish standing in the cabin, he steps over the wasted flesh and drops the blood stained cleaver that hung from his equally bloody hands, it sticks to the floor with a quick thump.

He walks to the small bathroom beside the stairs that lead to the second floor, the door creaks as he pushes into the bathroom, the man is welcomed with the too bright light that illuminates the hallway behind him. He never liked bright lights, it got on his nerves, but now he did not care.

He stands before the dripping sink, his attention is caught by the person staring back at him from the mirror. The gray eyes meet and gaze at each other, they were his mother's eyes and their presence was heavy and judging. He moves his focus to his blood splattered face, the blood has started to dry on his almond skin. The splotches slightly cover the scar running from his eye to lip, but he knows that it’s still there and that it always will be even when he's six feet under. His golden blonde hair is stained and dried with dark red. He reaches to turn on the faucet, the water runs and he just watches. After a second that felt like an eternity he decided not to clean the blood off, hiding his tracks wasn’t necessary anymore he thought as he closed the faucet and turned to the door.

The stairs creak as he makes his way to the attic, the sound like screams against his heavy boot, he thinks nothing of the noise because he was accustomed to hearing far more tormented screams and pleas at his mercy. He finishes the climb and rests a hand on the metal door as he fishes for keys in his aprons pocket. He unlocks the three locks holding the door shut and pulls. The chilling cold of the “freezer” could be felt immediately, quickly followed by the stench of flesh and blood, he doesn’t think twice as he enters the room filled with death.

No light entered the freezer or any part of the cabin, the windows were blocked off with wooden blanks. Making the slaughterhouse look like nothing but an abandoned cabin from the outside. The man walks across the room, passing by the pillars of flesh hanging high and low all over the attic. He stops before the boarded up window, leans and grabs an unused meat hook, he straightens and stares at the wooden blanks for a second.

His knuckles go white against the handle of the hook as he swings with the same might he uses for cutting bones, the hook slams into the wooden blanks making splinters fly as at the man. He swings again and the hook digs into one of the blanks tearing it off the nails holding it in place, he keeps hitting the wood until it reveals the broken window it once hid.

The full moon spares no time to light up the room with a beam so pure it could be called holy by most people, but not this man. It’s a beautiful night he thought, he looks out at the rustling trees. The man turns away from the window with a heavy sigh. He strides to the pile of clothes in the corner, he doesn’t plan on changing, but he fishes a key chain from his pants and turns to leave the room, turns back to close the door, takes a final glance at his handy work, The room housing what once was ambitious human beings, now all that remains is lifeless hunks of meat. The man bids his friends a silent farewell as the metal door slams shut.

The man makes the trek back down stairs and starts for the door, his foot kicks something as he walks, he stops to look at the head he hit, a scream frozen on the face of the decapitated head. He picks up the head and holds it in front of him, looks into the black eyes of the boy he just murdered, runs a hand into the boy's brown hair, a smile tugs at the side of his mouth as he kisses the lips of the dead child. The smile fades away a moment later and he throws the head across the room, it slams into the plastic wrapped wall and clatters to the ground.

He continues to the door, unlocks and pushes the door open letting the cool night breeze enter. He makes his way off the cabin porch not bothering to close the door behind him, makes his way to his black truck and jumps in the driver seat. The man starts the engine and the radio sparks to life with blaring music, the man slams his fist into the radio as hard as he could manage. The music stops, he retreats his hand from the smashed in radio, red hot pain shoots up his arm a second later, his knuckles bleed but he gives it no attention. He grabs the wheel and takes the truck off park and makes his way out of the woods.

When the truck gets back on the open road the man reaches to the glove compartment, he fishes out a pack of cigarettes and pushes the dashboard lighter. He takes a cigarette out of the pack and tosses the pack aside, he grabs the lighter when it pops back out and lights his cigarette then throws the lighter out of the window. He holds the cigarette between his teeth but does not pull, instead he lets the cigarette burn slowly while the smoke fills his nose. The smoke felt soothing and familiar, it reminded him of the smoke of his house burning to ashes with his mother in it, screaming for dear life. He didn't enjoy burning his mother alive, but it was necessary he thought as he looks up at the rear view and glances at his own face. He touches the scar that haunted him his entire life, then returns his attention to the ride, letting the smoke coat his anger. It all will be over soon anyway.

When the man reaches the city after a drive that felt like a lifetime, he makes his way to the nearest police precinct. He kills the engine and gets out of the truck, takes the burned out cigarette from between his teeth and flicks it in-front of him. He strides to the precinct and pushes the double doors open, everyone in the reception turns to look at the cause of the dramatic entrance, and every cop in the room either has their hands on their guns or has already drawn it at the sight of the blood drenched man. The man slowly raises his bloody hands and walks to the receptionist. The uniformed officer in charge of the reception holds a cool expression while aiming the gun at the man standing across her desk. The man stares at her for a moment, acknowledging the air filled with murmurs and the slight twitch of her lip. A smile tugs against his lips and he can’t help but let it grow into a wide grin. He drowns the laugh escaping his throat and says “Hello, my name is Jason Lawrence, I am the butcher of Baltimore.”