Under the Surface
My father was a good man. He knew what I would become, and when he failed to dissuade me, he turned my bad habit into a blessing for society. Even so, I kill by the Law of Harry, but I don't delude myself into thinking I am a hero. I am a murderer, my taste in victim is just slightly more refined. My blood collection is more than proof of my deviance.
It seems to me, blood is power. To control someone's blood is to control their very life. So what better way to memorialize am man than with his blood? Looking at my neatly organized blood trophies centers me. These slides hold the only remaining blood of my victims, and they are mine. What was once so tenacious and vital now sits docile and inert. I realize that my blood collection is a liability. But, in my opinion one must stand up for the things one believes in, even if there is some danger.
But blood doesn't start out so tame.
Our bodies are plump with the stuff. It gushes forth with the slightest provocation. Believe me, I would know. Some even act like if there just wasn't any blood, their wouldn't be any problem. As if the stream of blood is the issue, instead of the gaping wound it flows from. In my opinion, most people are ungrateful for their blood. Most of the time, my victims blood comes the closest to escape of any part of their body. Even as its progenitor lies dying on my table, blood slithers along the ground, feeling its way, searching for freedom. Not that I've ever let any achieve its aspirations...
Blood even seems to talk to me. In my day job as a blood splatter analyst blood tells a story. This spray says "severed artery." This splash speaks of heavy handed butchering.
Which brings me to this newest body. A body with no blood... what a fascinating idea. Body disposal without the need for trash bags or saran wrap sounds like a fantasy. I might even call it unsportsmanlike. But where did the blood go to? The blood... Well either way, with no blood at the scene I don't have much to do.