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This is not petty theft.
I’m beyond that, beyond the teen smash and grabbers, beyond the fake charity worker, beyond the old lady sweet-talker. I’m above and beyond all of these, in a field of my own, where the real money is.
This house is special.
I’ve been eying it up for a few years now, sneaking a peak in through the windows, marvelling at all the stuff they’ve got. It’d take a good few days to clear everything out.
Antiques, that’s where I’m at.
Not many people know the worth of what’s around them - that old sideboard, cupboard, desk that they’ve been living with. People are morons, they price their telly before what it’s sitting on.
But this house ..... god.
I’ve never seen anything like it, crammed to the rafters with everything - furniture, paintings, vases, silver, old clocks, everything - even the door knobs are worth a fortune. I would place a bet that the contents of this house are worth more than the empty shell.
And I’ve been waiting all this time.
It’s an elderly couple. I’d never hurt anyone, just wait until they’ve gone away and take what they don’t value. This couple, some war veteran and your typical stiff-upper-lipped beat-you-with-a-broom housewife, they’re not the kind to go away.
They’ve been at the house the 8 years I’ve been in this game, and never taken a holiday, anywhere. And probably scores of years before that, too.
But that’s all changed.
I was going to do a house two streets away, and was cutting through when I saw it. The mashed-up old car the size of a oil tanker was gone, all the curtains drawn and a huddle of milk bottles by the front door someone's forgot to cancel.
I run the usual checks and ... yes, they’ve gone. Some spontaneous out-of-the-blue flight off to America to see some distant cousins just outside of LA for two weeks. Two weeks to clear the place out.
First I needed a look around, I’d only seen the two front receptions rooms of the old house - them crammed with antiques and I know I need to see the rest, I’ll come back at night. Already adrenaline rushes through me, I’ll soon see their hidden treasures.
It’s late, near enough midnight, the surrounding houses are dark and still. The front door is warped and twisted in the frame, leaving gaps all around, but a new-looking lock holds is firmly in place. The pick’s back in my pocket in well under a minute and moonlight baths the exposed floorboards, all these years of practise make locks inconsequential. I take my first step into what I know is a gold mine - for me, anyway - and move to the room on the right, the one I’ve already seen, but long to feel and touch and smell.
An ancient oak bench and three matching chairs with high backs and delicate, almost unbelievably detailed, fretwork is cut into them. The legs are a beautifully carved flow of designs and techniques ending with the classic lion’s feet, I can smell the sweat and tears spent hunched over the chairs, endlessly working towards their completion. The scrolled arms are a honour to touch, smooth from years of wear, but still the picture of mastery.
I sigh. They’re perfect.
I move now towards the back of the house, hoping, dreaming for the surprise I want to find. The door to what I expect to be the dining room open, I step inside and hold my breath.
Yes.
There it is, the most magnificent table I have ever seen done out in a black wood echoing expense and class. Eight perfectly formed chairs surround it, like a halo of desire, straight-backs sending a shiver up of mine. All there is in the room, the way it should be.
I stop.
There’s something on the table, something beautiful.
A crystal jug glitters in the moonlight, dramatically curved with a silver handle. A deep crimson liquid fills the jug, urging me to pour it out into one of many glasses shaped the same way.
Blood.
My head screams it at me. It’s not red wine, or a fruity summer drink, but blood.
I reason with myself in my own mind, all the impossibilities of this thought, and I win. There’s no way it could be blood there, sitting deliciously in the jug.
But the illogical doubt still remains.
Reason cannot overwhelm gut instinct.
And my gut is screaming at me, screaming there’s blood in that jug.
Human blood.
It hits me again, and I can’t deny it. Nothing says it is, but I know it is. The blood of a human, sitting idly, innocently, in the most beautiful jug I’ve ever seen.
Drink.
I flinch as the thought’s echo bounces through my head. I do not think on the subject. Compulsion drives me to act. To pour. To drink.
I do not question the thought, sprung from the darkness of my mind, urging to do something that defies human belief.
Human blood.
Nothing stops me.
The jug is heavy, but I lift it, and pour a red river into a glass nearby. The rim is tipped with silver, echoing the jug’s handle, and a fluted stem sweeps majestically into the wide base, but none of this touches my mind as my lips touch to the glass.
My trade, my life, my passion, my desire.
Blinked away as the red liquid flows towards me.
I take a gulp, and another, and another. That thought, the darkness in my brain, pushing me further. I do not think, I just do.
Another glass is poured, again lifted, again drunk. The bitter taster of another’s life slides down easily and relaxes my muscles, feeling loose and distant.
I close my eyes and my hand works by it’s own accord, lift, pour, lift, drink. Until the jug is empty. I look down and frown, there is no more soothing, thick liquid for me to consume.
Then I see a large stain on my shirt, a growing pool of red. I must have spilt some of the blood down my front, wasted it. Horribly wasted.
Frantically I wipe at the blood on me, someone else's blood on my clothes, trying to scoop up some excess and taste again the ambrosia of life.
My hands are covered now and I stumble into the hall, something far off reminds me to visit the kitchen, look for more blood there, I need more blood to relax me further.
The kitchen is empty. There’s no more jugs of blood, no more crimson life sitting exposed for me. Not a glass, not a drop. Nothing.
A knock on the door.
I try to swim up through the swampy, misty world I’ve lapsed into and come out with a bang into the real world, sounds drilling into my just-mute world.
The knock again, it was real.
Coming from the door I never closed.
My senses find me again as the fog clears. I know I’m in trouble, that person knows what I’ve done, drunk the human blood sitting there for me, I need to defend myself.
There.
A knife.
On the side.
Never done this before, never hurt anyone.
I lunge and lift it into the pale moonglow.
A rush of blood, MY blood, suddenly fills my head and the world is spinning. I stumble as cupboards spin around me, gripping the knife as protection, and trying to hold onto something - to stabilise myself. I grope at walls and countertops, a mad struggle with my sense of balance, and finally win out.
The world levels itself, leaving me rocking on my feet.
Blood.
Bloody handprints cover the kitchen, the blood of another stamped with my prints over the unique, glorious kitchen.
And a knife in my hand.
There’s a shout from the door.
It calls a greeting nervously into the gloom.
I hear the creak of a floorboard and stumble maniacally towards the back door.
There’s something in my way.
Something hanging from the ceiling.
I struggle with it, trying to get past, get around, get free of the house and the blood and the knife.
I cannot get past, there must be another way.
I step back and look.
A body.
A body hanging from the timeworn ceiling, eyes rolled back into their sockets, mouth lolling open. Naked.
A thousand, a million, knife cut cover the body from head to toe, piecing flesh deep, scarring muscle, but never killing.
It - HE - dangles above a tray, and it in drips slowly his lifeless blood.
A pool of darkness.
Murder.
I scramble past to the back door, my mind beating a thousand kettle drums in my head.
I hear distantly the cautious opening of the kitchen door.
I pull at the handle.
Locked.
A voice whispers to itself, a head gazes at the red handprints around he kitchen, an exhalation with a muttered curse.
Eyes stare.
The door stays lock.
The words beat through my mind.
Blood
Human blood.
Drink.
Nothing stops me.
A knock on the door.
A knife.
Blood.
A body.
Murder
The blade glints wickedly in the brilliant moonlight.
The darkness in my mind eclipses the light, the reason.
The taste for blood burns in my mouth.
I step back into the room.
Eyes stare.
Blood.
I’m beyond that, beyond the teen smash and grabbers, beyond the fake charity worker, beyond the old lady sweet-talker. I’m above and beyond all of these, in a field of my own, where the real money is.
This house is special.
I’ve been eying it up for a few years now, sneaking a peak in through the windows, marvelling at all the stuff they’ve got. It’d take a good few days to clear everything out.
Antiques, that’s where I’m at.
Not many people know the worth of what’s around them - that old sideboard, cupboard, desk that they’ve been living with. People are morons, they price their telly before what it’s sitting on.
But this house ..... god.
I’ve never seen anything like it, crammed to the rafters with everything - furniture, paintings, vases, silver, old clocks, everything - even the door knobs are worth a fortune. I would place a bet that the contents of this house are worth more than the empty shell.
And I’ve been waiting all this time.
It’s an elderly couple. I’d never hurt anyone, just wait until they’ve gone away and take what they don’t value. This couple, some war veteran and your typical stiff-upper-lipped beat-you-with-a-broom housewife, they’re not the kind to go away.
They’ve been at the house the 8 years I’ve been in this game, and never taken a holiday, anywhere. And probably scores of years before that, too.
But that’s all changed.
I was going to do a house two streets away, and was cutting through when I saw it. The mashed-up old car the size of a oil tanker was gone, all the curtains drawn and a huddle of milk bottles by the front door someone's forgot to cancel.
I run the usual checks and ... yes, they’ve gone. Some spontaneous out-of-the-blue flight off to America to see some distant cousins just outside of LA for two weeks. Two weeks to clear the place out.
First I needed a look around, I’d only seen the two front receptions rooms of the old house - them crammed with antiques and I know I need to see the rest, I’ll come back at night. Already adrenaline rushes through me, I’ll soon see their hidden treasures.
It’s late, near enough midnight, the surrounding houses are dark and still. The front door is warped and twisted in the frame, leaving gaps all around, but a new-looking lock holds is firmly in place. The pick’s back in my pocket in well under a minute and moonlight baths the exposed floorboards, all these years of practise make locks inconsequential. I take my first step into what I know is a gold mine - for me, anyway - and move to the room on the right, the one I’ve already seen, but long to feel and touch and smell.
An ancient oak bench and three matching chairs with high backs and delicate, almost unbelievably detailed, fretwork is cut into them. The legs are a beautifully carved flow of designs and techniques ending with the classic lion’s feet, I can smell the sweat and tears spent hunched over the chairs, endlessly working towards their completion. The scrolled arms are a honour to touch, smooth from years of wear, but still the picture of mastery.
I sigh. They’re perfect.
I move now towards the back of the house, hoping, dreaming for the surprise I want to find. The door to what I expect to be the dining room open, I step inside and hold my breath.
Yes.
There it is, the most magnificent table I have ever seen done out in a black wood echoing expense and class. Eight perfectly formed chairs surround it, like a halo of desire, straight-backs sending a shiver up of mine. All there is in the room, the way it should be.
I stop.
There’s something on the table, something beautiful.
A crystal jug glitters in the moonlight, dramatically curved with a silver handle. A deep crimson liquid fills the jug, urging me to pour it out into one of many glasses shaped the same way.
Blood.
My head screams it at me. It’s not red wine, or a fruity summer drink, but blood.
I reason with myself in my own mind, all the impossibilities of this thought, and I win. There’s no way it could be blood there, sitting deliciously in the jug.
But the illogical doubt still remains.
Reason cannot overwhelm gut instinct.
And my gut is screaming at me, screaming there’s blood in that jug.
Human blood.
It hits me again, and I can’t deny it. Nothing says it is, but I know it is. The blood of a human, sitting idly, innocently, in the most beautiful jug I’ve ever seen.
Drink.
I flinch as the thought’s echo bounces through my head. I do not think on the subject. Compulsion drives me to act. To pour. To drink.
I do not question the thought, sprung from the darkness of my mind, urging to do something that defies human belief.
Human blood.
Nothing stops me.
The jug is heavy, but I lift it, and pour a red river into a glass nearby. The rim is tipped with silver, echoing the jug’s handle, and a fluted stem sweeps majestically into the wide base, but none of this touches my mind as my lips touch to the glass.
My trade, my life, my passion, my desire.
Blinked away as the red liquid flows towards me.
I take a gulp, and another, and another. That thought, the darkness in my brain, pushing me further. I do not think, I just do.
Another glass is poured, again lifted, again drunk. The bitter taster of another’s life slides down easily and relaxes my muscles, feeling loose and distant.
I close my eyes and my hand works by it’s own accord, lift, pour, lift, drink. Until the jug is empty. I look down and frown, there is no more soothing, thick liquid for me to consume.
Then I see a large stain on my shirt, a growing pool of red. I must have spilt some of the blood down my front, wasted it. Horribly wasted.
Frantically I wipe at the blood on me, someone else's blood on my clothes, trying to scoop up some excess and taste again the ambrosia of life.
My hands are covered now and I stumble into the hall, something far off reminds me to visit the kitchen, look for more blood there, I need more blood to relax me further.
The kitchen is empty. There’s no more jugs of blood, no more crimson life sitting exposed for me. Not a glass, not a drop. Nothing.
A knock on the door.
I try to swim up through the swampy, misty world I’ve lapsed into and come out with a bang into the real world, sounds drilling into my just-mute world.
The knock again, it was real.
Coming from the door I never closed.
My senses find me again as the fog clears. I know I’m in trouble, that person knows what I’ve done, drunk the human blood sitting there for me, I need to defend myself.
There.
A knife.
On the side.
Never done this before, never hurt anyone.
I lunge and lift it into the pale moonglow.
A rush of blood, MY blood, suddenly fills my head and the world is spinning. I stumble as cupboards spin around me, gripping the knife as protection, and trying to hold onto something - to stabilise myself. I grope at walls and countertops, a mad struggle with my sense of balance, and finally win out.
The world levels itself, leaving me rocking on my feet.
Blood.
Bloody handprints cover the kitchen, the blood of another stamped with my prints over the unique, glorious kitchen.
And a knife in my hand.
There’s a shout from the door.
It calls a greeting nervously into the gloom.
I hear the creak of a floorboard and stumble maniacally towards the back door.
There’s something in my way.
Something hanging from the ceiling.
I struggle with it, trying to get past, get around, get free of the house and the blood and the knife.
I cannot get past, there must be another way.
I step back and look.
A body.
A body hanging from the timeworn ceiling, eyes rolled back into their sockets, mouth lolling open. Naked.
A thousand, a million, knife cut cover the body from head to toe, piecing flesh deep, scarring muscle, but never killing.
It - HE - dangles above a tray, and it in drips slowly his lifeless blood.
A pool of darkness.
Murder.
I scramble past to the back door, my mind beating a thousand kettle drums in my head.
I hear distantly the cautious opening of the kitchen door.
I pull at the handle.
Locked.
A voice whispers to itself, a head gazes at the red handprints around he kitchen, an exhalation with a muttered curse.
Eyes stare.
The door stays lock.
The words beat through my mind.
Blood
Human blood.
Drink.
Nothing stops me.
A knock on the door.
A knife.
Blood.
A body.
Murder
The blade glints wickedly in the brilliant moonlight.
The darkness in my mind eclipses the light, the reason.
The taste for blood burns in my mouth.
I step back into the room.
Eyes stare.
Blood.
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Bloody hell.
Where'd this come from?
Where'd this come from?
FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> I reason with myself in my own mind, all the impossibilities of this
> thought, and I win. There’s no way it could be blood there, sitting
> deliciously in the jug.
> But the illogical doubt still remains.
*plugs proton excerciser into monitor and feeds veins*
ahhhhhh.
Now that, is a shiznit worth crediting.
[S] talk about the mother of all pops.....
> I reason with myself in my own mind, all the impossibilities of this
> thought, and I win. There’s no way it could be blood there, sitting
> deliciously in the jug.
> But the illogical doubt still remains.
*plugs proton excerciser into monitor and feeds veins*
ahhhhhh.
Now that, is a shiznit worth crediting.
[S] talk about the mother of all pops.....
Page: