A thought had crossed my mind standing over the corpse: wouldn’t it have been hilarious if someone were to mistake the deep browning blood for a new varnish on the long mahogany planks? The image of a stranger stepping naively across the maroon liquid and past as if it was nothing new brought a smile to my face. I wonder if another had also had that idea, as I inspect the rest of the floor, completely sodden as if the Creator had brushed with sweeping strokes. I smirked noticing the one drop of crimson on the grimy cream walls: the Creator was meticulous but failed to notice his one crime against the order he had set himself up for. Perhaps he got carried away, the paintbrush, material or otherwise, flicking the tiny spot to stain and contrast the walls in the small cottage.
“Well, uh, it’s not suicide obviously.” I rolled my eyes so Pike could see.
“Obviously,” I drawled.
Despite the layering of the most popular bodily fluid covering the entirely of the floor in the hallway, not a drop was on the young woman. Her arms, marred with one deep gash on each wrist, had been scrubbed clean. They looked as if she had been scrubbed with sandpaper as the pristine white of her bare upper arms was violent against the deepening purple around the yellowing cuts. I felt sorry for the Creator; I felt his anguish as the skin began to peel off in large flakes, the lack of life unsatisfying A shame, really, his picture was ruined because he was unplanned. Inspecting the limbs closely I felt his anger as the skin ripped away and panic; panic set in that would destroy the young woman’s beauty in death.
She was beautiful. The dead and long since disappeared are always beautiful: every inch of skin, every drop of blood, the organs inside fragile bodies.