Original skin. The beat of his heart

Original skin. The beat of his heart

Original WritingDark clouds drew closer to Paddington square. Thick drops of rain broke as they hit the ground. A frozen sculpture of an eagle standing on the world, beneath the winter moon, stared at John with its little stony eyes. John felt an instant moment of remorse, standing, soaked, at the front door of his house. In his hand spools of suffering as the thunder roars. A moment of intense lightening. John shivered in the cold, as he dared not meet the eye of the eagle.

He noticed a figure run in the distance out of the corner of his eye. John saw a figure get in a car and drive off. Standing scared of his own shadow, John lifted his left hand, agony in his wet pocket, as rain drips from the end of his nose, shattering on the welcome sign at the door.In his darkroom he was finally alone with the spools of suffering now set out in ordered rows. The only light was red, tenderly glowing as though he was in a church: John the priest preparing the mass.

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Solutions lie now in trays beneath his hands. Tension mounted in him as the photo processed. John waited anxiously, with a Mr Kipling cake in his right hand. His hands trembled. Features faintly started to twist before his eyes, a half formed ghost. John saw his life end in front of him.

He found it hard to breath, as if his lungs were bare. The feeling of being alone was no longer their, John felt as though he was being squeezed around his neck. The cold crept into his body through the surface of his skin. The beat of his heart was fading. He saw only one shadow, his own, as he looked round the room tortured.

Then his neck was let loose. Air was now his obsession as John gasped in relief. John looked again at the trays as twisting features slowly formed a figure of a person. Reluctantly he recognised this person. It is his Sarah. She lay before him on the floor, in the kitchen by the cupboard, pleading for her life as John held a razor-sharp knife, standing over her, his bear like shadow across her.

She tries to fight back and strikes his left hand with her sharp red nails. He punches her fiercely, full force as tears of blood came down the face of Sarah. John was in control. Joyfully watching his wife’s agony as he laughed. Water vapour comes out of the surface of his skin, blood rushes through his body as he can feel and hear his heart thump against his chest in the deafening silence. John had struck his wife with a knife several times.

Blood spattered everywhere in the kitchen. He could see the blood flow down the head of Sarah like a river making its way to the sea. He starts to cut the body of Sarah as though he is a surgeon, precisely, reaching into her chest for the heart of Sarah. The beating of the heart faded away in the palm of his hand.

John squeezes the heart in his hand as the blood poured on the kitchen tiles through the arteries and veins. John sighed. Sarah is no longer there. He falls on his knees, “sorry I didn’t want to do this”. He looked at him self in the mirror, a wobbling photo of grief. A door opened at a snail’s pace.

Someone else. John stays in the darkroom apprehensive. He was lost in the circumstances. There was a sound. Someone was calling John. A familiar call.

John crept out of the dark room like he was an intruder in the house. He walked slowly towards the kitchen. A figure was standing by the cupboard.

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