January 11, 2010 in S
By David Stewart
The bloodstain wasn’t coming off. He’d rinsed his hands in water which normally was all he needed. Using soap made the process too quick and he did enjoy watching the blood circle down the drain just like in that film… And in that television ad about shampoo where the woman in the shower gets stabbed sixteen times after she tells the audience all about how shiny her hair was. He loved that advertisement. Of all the ads that ended in brutal death (which was all of them he’d discovered) that was his favourite. He’d even bought that brand of shampoo.
But the stains weren’t coming off. For some reason these ones were more stubborn than most so he’d decided to use soap. Which strangely only made things worse. His hands seemed to be getting dirtier and the sink was covered in red. There seemed to be blood everywhere, even more than in the boot of his car, which he knew was going to need an extra scrubbing. He screamed in frustration and then turned the scream into a song that he either knew or was making up as he went along. It was hard to remember which but the tune was catchy even if there were no actual words.
The song entertained him so much that he forgot his troubles but remembered when he realised the basin, bench and nearby towels were covered in blood. He wrote the word “annoying” on the mirror in bright red and was pleased with the result.
Then he noticed the soap and a memory came flooding back: His fourth victim. He liked her. He wanted to remember her. So he’d turned her into things. He thought she’d make good soap.
He studied the crimson bar he was holding in his hands and decided it hadn’t been the success he’d hoped for.
But as failures went it wasn’t nearly as bad as the washing powder.
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