Hands crawled over the spine of the dead girl. Her body had remained unnoticed for over a week. The stench of rotting flesh (something across between decomposed fruit, dog farts and meat) was so unbearable that it was a miracle anyone had been able to get that close to her corpse without having died themselves - of revulsion.
Fortunately, that didn't tend to be a problem for people who don't mind the smell of decomposed fruit, dog farts and meat. I bet you think you don't know anyone like that. But that's only because you haven't met me. You've probably seen me, because I've walked down many streets in my life and the number of times I've tried to brush up against the people in the street and catch their scent, feel their sweat... who knows if just one of those times it was you?
The little shack in which the girl's body had been hidden was a standing cliché. It didn't do well to heighten the expectations of authority, because if you start being too original then they brand you as a real psychopath. If they don't know about the voices in my head then maybe I won't have to either.
For three days I had been contemplating the idea of stewing the girl and eating her bones. This would be deemed unacceptable by most 'normal' people but I wasn't sure I really fitted into that category - or wanted to. My mother used to say that if everyone were the same then life would be uncannily boring. So instead, I had left the body to rot and see how intolerable the stench became. When the flesh began to recede too far that the maggots took hold (as had occurred yesterday) then I would have to take a course of action one way or another.
Such a shame really when pretty figures make pretty corpses. When she was alive, I'm sure she'd have made a damn good time for whoever had been lucky enough to get their hands on her.
Obviously, that person should have been me - and the irony of the situation was that now, I was the only person who knew where the girl was and had full autonomy to do whatever I wanted with her and my hands. I'll bet you won't understand how much it means to me to have this much control, this much power. It's. My. Dream.
Everyone has a dream, some people are just weirder than others. Some of us are born weird, some of us achieve weirdness and the rest just have weirdness thrust upon them. I fell into the first category. As for this girl, she was different... instead, she was about to have me thrust upon her.
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