The slight dripping from the kitchen abruptly ended my post vacation buzz. Anticipating the need to make an emergency phonecall to a plumber, my jaw went slack at the site of the thick red liquid dripping from my ceiling. I rushed up to my upstairs neighbors apartment as I dialed 911. My silent prayer interrupted by the dispatcher.
"My name is Edward Michaels and I lived at 3710 Santiago Lane. I just returned from vacation to find blood dripping from my ceiling. My neighbors are the Andersons and .... Wait, their front door is ajar."
Numb, I attempted to narrate the scene as I choked back a resurgence of airline chicken. Mr. Anderson at the head of the table, his wife to his right, and their little boy to his left all bound and gagged in their places at the dinner table. Each one gutted and served a plate of their own entrails. On the Dinning room floor a message, written in intestine, the one clue as to the mind of the one who did this.
"Es fließt frei."
I don't really write much gore. Mostly to shake things up, I decided to try something gorier for a day. I am not really sure that it is "gory". It's well beyond what I'd normally write, but that does not mean someone who enjoys gore would be into it. I don't know to respond to that.
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