White Square

The man hurriedly rushed throughout the kitchen looking for as many household poisons that he could find. He was sweating profusely with his brow pinched and furrowed in deep, detached, pensive concentration. His intolerable pince-nez beating against his chest with every step, the dull light managed to produce an irregular glaring and blurring at the top of his bald head. The veins and arteries were under great stress as the blood seemed to pulsate through his thick, muscled neck.
The doctor found some detergents and bleaches and paused momentarily to take a slight pleasure in the aesthetic topography of the plastic contained beauty. He rushed down to his bloodstained workshop and worried over his workbench, where he has labored for years developing and designing skillfully constructed prosthetics for the heart – his own pacemaker struggling to keep up with the doctor’s hurried and evil designs.
The doctor painstakingly went to work on his most recent project to blend these horrible, powerful agents into a purifying solution. Seemingly calling upon his own ritualistic past, the obscure, older gentleman finally knew the secret history of man’s sacrificial story.
The powerful cleaning agents aroused an awful feeling of nausea. The noxious fumes rose through the dark matter of the dimly lit room and through the membranes within his olfactory cavities. A lamp hung down from the ceiling as the only source of light for the room, and the table with its dark, black top, smeared with blood seemingly emanated from the darkness behind. As he continued to labor, his thoughts meaninglessly meandered from thought to thought, yet managed to return to the scene of his darkest desires.
He stood over his unconscious patient like he just woke up from a horrible dream. Unable to account for the past several minutes, he viewed the young, supple, pale white skin of the woman before him. Her tender, small breasts pointedly mocked the doctor’s shame of impotence and advanced age.
The doctor’s overbearing figure appeared as an awful contrast to the delicate instruments that he was constantly drawing and replacing from his small surgeon’s kit. He fell back into his awful trance as he continued through his work, only to wake up once more to a scene of blood soaked hands and mangled body parts.

We entered the Victorian mansion on Old Hickory Lane yesterday. We got the call to check in on this place after reports that a neighbor had heard violent screaming coming from the basement, continuously for the past three hours. After breaking down the door, I was overcome by the smell of chemicals; we proceeded down towards the basement, which was pitch black. My partner fumbled around in the dark to find a light switch. I immediately began vomiting. A young woman was spread across a table with flies occasionally swooping down to violate her corpse’s resting spot. The light also revealed a man in the corner of the room. He had shot his brains out.


*I wrote this about 2 yrs ago. The only thing I really like here is how dark it is. Whenever I write anything, it's normally all introspective and flowery.